


28 Days

by RcA



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Kidnapping, Minor Violence, Neglect, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RcA/pseuds/RcA
Summary: On the night of his 28th birthday in Japan Daesung goes missing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't quite know why I've written this. It all started when Daesung made some comments about his fans in the days leading up to his 2017 Dome Tour. Fun, flirty comments, nothing sinister about them, but me being me, I couldn't resist putting a dark spin on his words. It also got me thinking again about a painful fic in another fandom that I read many years ago, one that never quite left me. Parts of this were influenced by that, but I barely remember it and doubt there are many similarities.
> 
> This has probably been one of the hardest things I've ever written, simply because I didn't exactly enjoy it. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to write it, and once it was begun I felt compelled to finish it and do it well (or well enough). My heart just wasn't in much of it. I mean... probably a good thing, when you think about it. That said, for the few of you who will actually read this, please take care. It's not too horrific, I think, but is quite bleak overall.
> 
> (My goal had been to get this posted before the start of his D na Show tour, but alas... I couldn't do it. To work on something like this while he's in the middle of touring, happy and radiant and charming as always, was... well, "strange" doesn't even begin to cover it.)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a fictional work based on the public personas of real people, over whom I make no claim and to whom I mean no harm. _Really._
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

 

 

 

He's thirsty.  
  
That's the first thing Daesung observes upon waking. His mouth is dry, his tongue heavy and too-large behind teeth that need wetting. He parts cracked lips and his tongue detaches from where it had fused to the roof of his mouth in sleep. He needs water.  
  
When was the last time he had anything to drink? He can't remember. He can barely think through the stuffing in his head, a dense pressure that stalls his thoughts. Though it's slowly subsiding, he still feels weighed down, wasted, as if he'd gotten blackout drunk the night before and needed help getting home.  
  
But he hadn't. Hard as it is to push a thought through the cotton behind his eyes, he knows that much. If he was hungover he would be feeling more than just parched; he'd be in pain.  
  
But wait-- there is pain. He's curled on his side, something coarse, like carpet, scratching at one side of his face. And his shoulders are _killing_ him. Through his arms pulled tight behind his back, a dull ache resonates.  
  
Wait. What?  
  
They're joined at the wrist at the small of his back. He tries to pry them apart but finds them fastened together with something rigid that cuts into his skin with every increasingly frantic tug.  
  
His hands are bound. An attempt to move his legs proves that his feet are too.  
  
When finally Daesung's eyes fly open, it's to total darkness. At first he panics, petrified with fear... until he registers something over his eyes, a strip of fabric stretched snug around his face and tied in a hard knot at the base of his skull.  
  
He blinks, his lashes scraping the soft material.  
  
"...Hello?"  
  
It's quiet. Dark and far too quiet.  
  
He rolls onto his stomach-- or tries to. There's a clanging at his back that startles him, metal sliding on metal, and he's stopped from going far, arms wrenched back hard.  
  
If he wasn't freaking out before, he is now.  
  
"Hello? Is... anyone there?" he tries, louder this time, feeling like a total fool but too fear-stricken to care. He doesn't know where he is, how he got here, if he's utterly alone or being watched. His voice doesn't echo back to him when he speaks, like some kind of padding is swallowing it up. Even with his lack of sight, he senses that he's in a small space. An insulated room.  
  
He hears something then, the quiet broken. Footsteps, quick and soft like socked feet sweeping across carpet. A key jiggles in a lock, a latch slides, a knob turns, a door opens, and through the flimsy material of the cloth covering his eyes there appears a faint impression of light.  
  
Fresh air flows into the room, and the fog in his head lifts a little more.  
  
Someone settles on the floor what feels like mere feet from his face. He can't see his visitor, but he can feel their presence keenly.  
  
He waits, and for a moment forgets to breathe.  
  
Hands touch the sides of his face and Daesung can't help it, how he recoils. He couldn't see the contact coming, wasn't expecting the brush of careful fingers up his cheeks and over closed eyelids.  
  
"You're awake," he hears in a voice that's unmistakably female. Her hands are gentle, fingers delicately tracing the edges of his blindfold. It takes Daesung a moment to filter the language through the mist in his mind.  
  
"Help," he says in Japanese, forcing his lips and tongue into the right shapes. "I don't know where I am, I can't see anything, and my hands--"  
  
"It's okay," the girl-- or woman, he can't be sure-- tells him. She sounds young. Her voice is sweet. Soothing. Oddly enough, it reminds him of flower petals, silky and soft. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here now."  
  
_Oh thank god._  
  
"There's something over my eyes." _A blindfold_ , he would really rather not say. "Take it off? Please."  
  
The hands cupping his face fall still.  
  
"I..."  
  
"Please, I need to see, I need--" He swallows thickly, his throat dry as dust. "I need to know."  
  
He's met with a long silence.  
  
"I don't know..." the girl says, her hands falling away, and Daesung feels suddenly, inexplicably cold.  
  
"What? Why?" He doesn't understand. "I can't move. My hands, my legs, there's something holding them together. Can you untie me?"  
  
"Have you tried getting out of them?" The girl smooths a hand down his arm to wrists that are starting to feel smart under his constant straining; whatever was used to tie him up is _too tight_ , and rubbing his wrists raw the longer he fights.  
  
"Yes. I've tried, I can't--" He pulls against the restraints, the muscles in his arms and legs flexing and pulling against them-- narrow strips of what might be plastic. It hurts. The metal sound starts up again too.  
  
"So they held up... Good. That's good."  
  
Her words are like a bucket of ice water down his back, shocking him still.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Zip ties." She plucks at the ties securing his wrists and ankles and hums to herself as if pleased. "You shouldn't struggle so much though. You'll hurt yourself."  
  
Daesung's lips move without sound, his mind still catching up, while she leans over him, propping herself up with a hand on his hip.  
  
"Your wrists are so red..."  
  
He's afraid to ask. He isn't sure he wants to know, but his growing suspicion sends the words spilling from his lips before he can even think to stop them.  
  
"...Did you put these on me?"  
  
The girl sighs, regretful.  
  
"I had to," she says, "to make sure you weren't going to wake up disoriented and hurt yourself by accident." After a moment's thought she adds, "or me."  
  
"Where am I?" Daesung finds the courage to ask. His thirst remains, as do his aches and pains, but his head is clear now. Too clear. Alarmingly clear.  
  
He's in danger here.  
  
"You're home," the girl answers, and there's a hopeful quality to it that makes Daesung's stomach churn, waves of unease threatening to break.  
  
"Home," he says.  
  
"Yes. I thought... Well, now we can finally be..." She pauses to compose herself, drawing in a nervous breath. "We can be together now! I know you've been trying to tell me. Trying to reach out to me. I tried to reach back, I tried really hard to make you hear me, but--" Her voice drops, low and sinister. "There were too many others in the way."  
  
That's when it sinks in, the severity of what's happened to him.  
  
"You-- you kidnapped me."  
  
He can't believe it. He can't imagine how she did it. This girl, this... petite young lady with her small hands and honeyed voice.  
  
This sort of thing happens to people all around the world, Daesung knows this. People are snatched, taken, held for ransom or auctioned off.  
  
But not here. Not _him_. Statistically speaking, when it comes to crime, Japan tops the list of safest countries in the world. Daesung has never had a single worry when walking the streets of Tokyo or Kobe or Osaka-- or even back home in Korea, for that matter.  
  
What's more, he's a man, and she's... a woman. His face heats with shame. How? Not just how did she do it, but how could this have happened at all? To him?  
  
"I wouldn't use that word," he hears over his own stormy thoughts. "It's so..."  
  
"You kidnapped me. You brought me here by force-- against my will!" he says, the words streaming out faster and freer the longer he lets his mouth run. "Let me go. Untie me and let me go!"  
  
He fights his bindings, ignoring the way they bite. There is power in his arms, he's strong. If he can _just_ \--  
  
He struggles until his arms are screaming in pain at the strain, until it feels like his wrists might snap under the stress.  
  
" _Stop_ ," she tells him sternly, and with a shove she sends him rolling onto his back, his arms now trapped under him. "There's no point in fighting them. They're heavy duty; they're not coming off, not the ties or the chains or the lock holding them."  
  
"What are you going to do with me?" Daesung asks, shaking.  
  
There's that disappointed sigh again.  
  
"Do you have to sound so scared? I brought you here because you said you wanted me to, of course. Didn't you get my letters?"  
  
"I never..."  
  
"You weren't always subtle. But sometimes you were... and even then I heard you. I understood."  
  
Beneath his blindfold Daesung's brow furrows in confusion.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says as mildly as he can manage. He wants an explanation from her, not an explosion of anger. She's brought him this far. Who knows what else she's capable of?  
  
"I'm talking about this. Us," is her reply as her hands find his face again. This time he lets them roam, lies motionless as the tips of her dainty fingers play over his jaw, feather light.  
  
_Us?_  
  
"You've had to keep it a secret, I know. To protect me. To protect us. You have so many fans here who all want you. They're not ready to see you with me. They wouldn't have understood." Her fingers dig in, short but sharp nails pricking at his skin. "They might have even hurt me if they'd known."  
  
"Known what?" he says around a whimper. Her hands withdraw.  
  
"That you'd been reaching out to me."  
  
"I wasn't."  
  
"You've been patient, and so have I... But I couldn't wait anymore," she pushes onward, ignoring him, her voice growing in strength and conviction. "It was a countdown, right? To something special. And you said it yourself, in your song, in _D-Day_ : _I won't hesitate anymore._ "  
  
_No._  
  
"And then you repeated it in _Near Future_."  
  
_That's not what I meant._  
  
"I listened, and I decided that I shouldn't hesitate either," she concludes, sounding pleased with herself. "So I won't. I'm not."  
  
_This can't be real_ , Daesung thinks, heart hammering in the wake of her declaration. She's using his own lyrics against him. His pulse beats a brisk rhythm like the drums he so loves to play-- not the cymbals, not the snare, but the bass, its thumping hard through his chest.  
  
_She thinks I've been sending her coded messages_ , he realizes with budding horror. _She believes that I secretly want to be with her. That I've been speaking directly to he through my songs and promotions. That we're somehow meant to be._  
  
_She's wrong. She's delusional. She's **crazy**._  
  
He's heard about these types of fans. There's a name for it, just beyond his reach. _Something_ -mania. Few and far between, admiring from a distance, their obsession typically stays where it begins: in their heads. But every once in awhile one of them snaps, tired of biding their time. Years of planning turns to action. To give the object of their affections a chance to see, a safe place away from the public eye where the two of them can just be themselves. Together. Their delusion drives them to pursuit, intent on making their fantasy a reality.  
  
For Daesung, this is no fantasy. It's a living nightmare.  
  
"I want to see," he begs, desperate to regain his sight at the very least. "Please. Please take it off."  
  
He can't bear this darkness any longer. His inability to see his surroundings or his captor is doing more to unnerve him than the fact of his capture. He needs to put a face to the voice he's hearing. His eyes may be small but they're his windows to the world, and his hands are his tools; take both of these things from him and he's helpless.  
  
He doubts he can convince her to give him back his hands, not right now, this he knows. But his eyes... maybe.  
  
"Take it off? We're still talking about the blindfold, right?"  
  
"Yes," he says meekly, hating the grin in her voice. There's nothing remotely funny about any of this.  
  
"Afraid of the dark?"  
  
"...Yes."  
  
Daesung is afraid of many things. The dark isn't one of them.  
  
"Aw," she coos. "Poor thing. Alright. I wasn't sure, but..." She leans in close, her hands slipping behind his head to search through his hair for the knot. "I want to see you too, you know. You have lovely eyes. Would be a shame to keep them covered up forever."  
  
He doesn't think she means it as a threat, but it sends a shiver down his spine all the same.  
  
"There."  
  
The fabric is lifted from his face. He blinks up at the ceiling blearily, eyes adjusting to the room's dim lighting. Four walls closing in. Look like a closet. He twists around to learn what's anchoring him. A radiator-style heater. Old, by the looks of it. Large, cast iron, mounted to the wall with pipes leading into the floor. Sturdy.  
  
And there, the source of the noise from before: a robust chain wound around its coils and, holding it all in place, a hefty-looking padlock.  
  
"Why is there a radiator inside a closet?"  
  
Radiator heaters are meant to warm whole rooms, not small, enclosed spaces like this one.  
  
"This wasn't always a closet." She raps her knuckles against the thing; even the _sound_ it makes is somehow heavy, the iron thick and burdensome. "It was probably too heavy to move. This thing must weigh hundreds of pounds; it would take several people to lift it."  
  
Daesung eyes it with a touch of fear.  
  
"Don't worry," she says, tapping her nails down its side, "it won't burn you. I've never used it. I'm not even sure it still works."  
  
Finally, he turns to her. She's on her knees beside him, bare legs folded under a skirt that falls to mid-thigh, back straight. Everything about her posture suggests prim and proper. She should look small and unassuming like this, but from his place on the floor she looms over him, large and daunting.  
  
She beams down at him.  
  
"I'm Haruka. Like your song, Harukaze Melody." She bows deeply to him, dark hair pouring over her shoulders and shrouding her face as she dips low. "It's nice to finally meet you. Please treat me kindly," she says in the traditional Japanese greeting.  
  
Daesung stares, not sure how to reply.  
  
"Don't be rude."  
  
"You know what's rude? Kidnapping," he blurts out.  
  
_Shit, shouldn't have said that_ , he thinks, hoping he won't come to regret it, but all she does is roll her eyes at him and that's when he gets a good look at her. She's rather plain looking, as far as girls go. Young, just as he thought, probably early twenties. Black hair that falls just past her shoulders, straight but with a hint of wave to it, like she'd taken an iron to it that morning and the curls are loosening up as the day wears on.  
  
He fidgets on the floor, licking at chapped lips. What time is it, anyway? How long has he been out? Does anyone even know he's missing yet?  
  
"Where did you bring me?" he tries one more time. "Are we still in Osaka?"  
  
"You're in my home," she says, sidestepping his question. "That's all I can tell you right now. If you're good-- and I mean really, _really_ good-- maybe you'll get more later."  
  
Daesung can be good. He can be so good. He can cooperate if that's what it will take to win back his freedom.  
  
"So what was it, exactly, that made you so sure..." He doesn't know how to say this. He can't believe he's even trying. But he needs to understand her better, need to know where he went wrong. "When did you, ah, know that I wanted you to make a move?"  
  
"Line Live. I tried to get through to you on Nico Nico too, but they didn't select my question..."  
  
_Ah, of course._ The Line Live broadcast had been fun, but the fans had been cheekier than usual and he'd responded in kind, had let slip a few things he thought he might regret later.  
  
"You said your fans had become more dangerous lately. Bolder. More daring than ever. And that you'd like it if we continued that way," she states, preening as she unveils his so-called secret messages. "That was when I knew."  
  
"Knew what?"  
  
She slaps his arm playfully. "That it was time! That you were ready." She rubs at his arm where she'd hit him, fingers massaging light circles into the reddened skin. "I'm just giving you what you asked for."  
  
Daesung tenses under her touch. He did say those things... but he had only been playing. Just a little harmless flirting through the camera. He had never meant it as an invitation to _abduct_ him.  
  
He wonders how many others out there had come to the same conclusion. How many of his fans are thinking about him right now, convinced he's been communicating with them in private, asking them to act on their desires? How many are plotting ways to jump him the next chance they get?  
  
It's something he's never seriously considered before-- that he might not be safe from his own fans. That some of them might love him too much, to the point of _obsession_.  
  
"I'm just sorry it had to be like this," she adds quietly, patting his upper arm in a way that's probably meant to be consoling but just makes Daesung cringe. Any touch she lays on him is forced contact. No matter how chaste, no matter how _well-meaning_ , it makes his fingers and toes curl in a bad way.  
  
He says and plucks at his restraints again, fingers trying and failing to reach the ties. The chains clink with the movement.  
  
"I don't want to keep you like this, all locked up, but... it's just for a little while."  
  
"Until I see what you see," he murmurs, turning his face into the carpet so the words come out garbled. "How did I get here, anyway?"  
  
"Hmmm." Her lips pucker in thought. "That's not really important, is it? All that matters is that you're here now. Right?"  
  
Indignation flares up in him; she's toying with him.  
  
"You _are_ pretty heavy though. All that muscle, I guess," she adds, giving his bicep a squeeze.  
  
"Who helped you?" Daesung asks, stamping down his loathing for now. There's no way she carried him in here all on her own.  
  
"So full of questions!" she exclaims, clearly amused. "And hey, maybe I'm stronger than I look."  
  
"Why keep me tied up? If you're so sure about all this."  
  
She frowns down at him then, and he thinks he's struck a nerve.  
  
"You think I'll hurt you?"  
  
Her eyes dart away, taking a sudden interest in their surrounding--  the walls around them, the bare shelving above them, the light bulb on the ceiling overhead. The closet she's dumped him in is mostly empty, devoid of clothing and other belongings; she must have cleared it out in advance. Making room for him... or protecting her possessions _from_ him.  
  
_She planned this, she had a space prepared for you_ , a little voice reminds him, and somehow that's what hurts most, knowing that this was premeditated. He wonders how long she's spent lying in wait.  
  
"Hurt me?" She shrugs. "I have no way of knowing that you won't."  
  
"I won't hurt you." _Just please don't hurt me._  
  
"We'll see." In a flash she's on her feet, and Daesung is left staring at her socks: a joyful shade of yellow and covered in cute cats. "You're probably hungry. Or thirsty. Is water okay?"  
  
"...Water's fine." He cranes his head up to watch her go-- and immediately turns back to the floor when he realizes he's looking straight up her skirt.  
  
She laughs and nudges him with one socked foot, the ends of her toes poking at his chest.  
  
"Don't worry. I'll take care of you."  
  
Then she disappears out the door with a skip in her step that leaves him reeling. Does she have to be so cheerful about it?  
  
He still aches in odd places all over and the hard, unforgiving floor under him isn't helping. Without her filling him in, he has no way of knowing how long it's been since he arrived here, how long he spent passed out on the carpet. After the conversation he's just had, after all he's just learned, he wishes he'd stayed that way. Maybe he _is_ still asleep and this is nothing more than a bad dream, one that he'll wake from and forget within the hour as he goes about the rest of his day.  
  
But Daesung knows when he's dreaming and when he's awake. He's a realist; he can't fool himself into believing this is something he'll magically wake up from. The real world has monsters too, even misguided ones in the form of sweet-looking young girls.  
  
She returns with a glass in hand-- no, a plastic cup, it only looks like glass-- filled halfway with clean, cool water. There's not much he can do about it when she slides in close because as long as he's stuck like this _he needs her_ , how she helps him into a sitting position and tips the cup against his lips until its contents are drained, Daesung gulping down every last drop until it's gone. Then she brings him more because it isn't nearly enough. The way she pats him on the head when he's finished-- lovingly, with approval-- it's almost enough to bring the water back up.  
  
He turned twenty-eight yesterday.

 

 

\--

 

 

His dome tour had been a big hit, and had gone off without a hitch. He has his team to thank for working around the clock to keep the show going as planned. Two cities, two weekends, two hundred thousand fans. The venues had sold out, every seat filled... all for him.  
  
He's still struggling to wrap his head around it.  
  
And he's so grateful for his team; without them none of this would be possible. The final date of the tour had fallen on the week of his twenty-eighth birthday. They had surprised him by celebrating on that last day, rolling out a giant D-kun shaped cake lined with every kind of fruit even though his actual birthday was still several days away. Seungri had surprised him most of all, simply by showing up unannounced. He had led the audience in a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday and had briefly turned them against him, demanding that Daesung _show them something, anything_.  
  
Typical Seungri, once he had a mic in his hand, it seemed he'd never give it up. He'd nearly stolen the show.  
  
"Can't help but love him," Daesung had told the crowd after Seungri's exit, shaking his head and complaining through a grin that couldn't be tamed. That Seungri had shown up at all moved Daesung deeply. He didn't think he'd ever stop smiling.  
  
As for his actual birthday, it came and went without fanfare, just how he likes it. He'd had a quiet day, had spent most of it lounging around his hotel room stuffing his face with takeout and catching up on Marvel movies he'd started during Big Bang's MADE tour... started and hadn't managed to finish. Touring had taken a lot out of him, okay, and making it to the ends of movies awake isn't exactly his forte.  
  
He was set to fly back to Korea in just a few days. He and his family and his small circle of friends-- minus Seunghyun, practically shackled to his post at the police station in Seoul-- had plans to gather for his birthday there.  
  
The drawback to lazy days spent binge-watching is that movies give him a serious case of the munchies. Halfway through _Captain America: Civil War_ Daesung realized he'd eaten through his stash at hand, and had had promptly left the hotel on a quick snack run. Up the street to the nearest conbini-- there's one on every corner, a 5-minute walk at most. He could make it there and back before the TV's screensaver function had time to kick in.  
  
So away he'd gone, the moon shining bright at his back.  
  
He has a hazy memory of being stopped on the way back, bag of snacks in hand. A girl had sought his help in finding her phone, said she'd dropped it. maybe this one, it had been dark out and he doesn't remember her face. She had begged him to use his phone as a flashlight, just a quick sweep of the area.  
  
"It won't take long," she had promised." I think I know approximately where I lost it... It's just so dark and I don't know the area..."  
  
He had wanted to turn her down-- his pay-per-view movie was waiting for him back in his room-- but what kind of guy refuses a girl in need? He couldn't bring himself to tell her no. So they had ducked into the narrow alley together, Daesung holding his phone out to chase away the shadows while she searched the ground for her missing phone.  
  
Then he was waking up here.  
  
He reminisces about his recent tour. Wonders if _she_ attended any of his concerts, and if so, where she was seated. Was she was watching him from way up high, near the back of the stadium, or was she lucky enough to secure a seat up front? He worries himself sick at the thought of her cheering him on, sweats over how many times he might have locked eyes with her without knowing what lay in store.  
  
Just another excited fan. Just another smiling face, happy, dancing, light stick in hand. _Haruka_. Like his song, she had said. That one had been a favorite of his, one he had personally helped compose. Will he ever sing it again? Or has she ruined it for him?  
  
Is that what people think? That he's leading them on? He doesn't mean to. He teases them, that's all. He thought everyone knew. Before Daesung can disperse them his thoughts are amassing, spiraling out of control, a gathering storm of crippling doubt.  
  
He thought steering clear of social media would be enough. He thought his fans understood how he valued his time alone. He thought he'd taken all the right measures to keep his admirers at an appropriate distance, a _professional_ one-- without completely cutting them off, of course. That kind of isolation is just bad for business.  
  
He thought wrong, he knows now. All it takes is a look, a word, a smile. A lyric in a song. Something minimal given deeper meaning.  
  
Somehow, somewhere along the way, his message was misinterpreted.  
  
_Take me. I'm yours._  
  
Onstage one day, overtaken by a swell of emotion, Daesung had confessed. In the days leading up to his concerts he'd felt it, a stubborn suspicion that this tour would be his last. Last solo album, last chance to connect with the fans... at least until after enlistment.  
  
But after the outcome of this tour YG has hinted at him doing more, offering him opportunities to reunite with his fanbase later in the year. He'd been over the moon at the proposal, his confidence soaring. But he wonders now if he'd been right that day onstage, the spotlight trained on him illuminating some truth he sensed inexplicably but couldn't yet see.  
  
Because after this... he isn't so sure.

 

 

\--

 

 

A muffled noise pulls him from a light sleep.  
  
It's unsettling still, waking to total darkness. Sometimes she leaves the light on for him. Sometimes she doesn't. There's a small strip of light carved into the darkness under the door-- hardly enough to illuminate the room, but it does, at least, reassure him that he hasn't gone blind while he was out.  
  
Sleep is hardly an escape, here; even his dreams are troubled.  
  
The sound reaches him again. It's coming from... through the wall? From the other side. Daesung bolts upright.  
  
There's someone over there.  
  
Of course there is. He was deep inside city limits to start; this is probably an apartment building. No way she doesn't have neighbors.  
  
It doesn't have to be all on him to break himself out of here, Daesung realizes. If he can just make himself _heard_...  
  
He rolls onto his back on the floor and gives the wall a hard kick. His legs are the best tool he's got right now. Time to make some noise.  
  
He drops his head to the carpet and pounds the wall and yells out all his wordless frustration and fear, anything to be heard, anything to be found. The impact against his socked feet jars him but he carries on, even as his back begins to cramp in the awkward position.  
  
_You're going to kick a hole in the wall_ , a sinister voice floats up to him from within. _She won't be very happy about that._  
  
_I have to try_ , he bites back, shoving the voice of caution down, down deep where it can't interfere with what might be his one shot at rescue.  
  
He's pulling his legs back for another strike when he looks up and finds her standing in the doorway.  
  
"What do you think you doing?"  
  
Fear grips him. He's in trouble now.  
  
"Well?"

Her arms are folded, hip cocked to one side. She seems more annoyed than worried.  
  
To his credit, he manages to work up a lopsided grin.  
  
"There was a spider?"  
  
She settles beside him with a sigh.  
  
"Knowing you, I almost believe that."  
  
"Yeah," he says, shaky. Shit, what's she going to do to him? No way she lets him off with nothing. She knows what he was doing, and it wasn't crushing spiders.  
  
"Do you think someone's going to hear you? Is that it?" She peers down at him and shakes her head sadly. "There's no one on the other side of that wall."  
  
"I heard something."  
  
"You _think_ you heard something," she corrects him. "This isn't an apartment. It's a house. My family's house." Then, softly, "Mine now."  
  
A house? In downtown Osaka? Houses are for the suburbs, not inner city areas.  
  
"How... How did you get me here?"  
  
" _Oh, I'm so sorry, my boyfriend, he's had too much to drink_ ," she says, pitching her voice obnoxiously high. "No one would suspect a sweet girl like me. And you might not remember much of it but you were walking, at least."  
  
Daesung reaches back in his memory, straining for even a glimpse of the journey here, but as with every attempt to sort out how he ended up here, he comes up empty.  
  
"Well. Sort of," she amends.  
  
He lets his eyes slip shut in embarrassment at the thought of people seeing him like that, stumbling around like a drunk man.  
  
"Are you embarrassed? Don't be. You know how people here are. They look away," she says, smiling down at him, eyes glittering with mirth-- and something else. Something darker.  
  
_Only when you're not looking_ , Daesung thinks. People in Korea can stare and get away with it, but the Japanese are especially skilled at watching you without your knowing, observing in secret. Maybe someone saw what was happening. Possibly a call was placed. Surely there's someone out there searching for him right now.  
  
...Of course they're searching for him. His manager must know he's missing by now. He had places to be, a plane to catch. His family has been notified, and probably his bandmates too. They must be sick with worry, wondering where he's disappeared to.  
  
He can be hermit-like when he isn't working; it's not unusual for him to hide away in his home for days at a time, happy as can be in his self-imposed isolation. But to vanish without a trace? To ignore calls and texts and--  
  
"My phone," he gasps, "What did you do with it?"  
  
"It's off," she says simply. "I didn't look through it if that's what you're worried about. Wouldn't be right."  
  
_Of course you didn't_ , Daesung wants to say. _Probably couldn't get past the password lock._  
  
"I am curious though. You can walk me through it later if you like."  
  
They're out there, following every lead they have in a tireless effort to find him. They have to be. He won't accept anything else.  
  
He crawls to his knees-- he doesn't want her hovering over him if he can help it-- and a thought strikes him.  
  
He could lunge at her, like this. Tackle her. Take her down to the floor with him.  
  
...then what? His hands are useless, his legs are fused at the ankle. He has weight on his side and not much else. What can he do? What _would_ he do, even if he could? Even being her prisoner isn't enough to make him want to hurt her. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, ever.  
  
"Kick and scream all you want," she tells him as he wilts against the wall, violent thoughts fading away. "It won't make a difference. No one is coming for you."  
  
And that takes the last of the fight out of him.  
  
"I don't like hearing you like that though. Your voice is too beautiful to waste on making such awful noise." She pins him with a stern look. "Keep it up and you won't be getting any dinner."  
  
His stomach tightens at the thought.  
  
"You'd starve me?"  
  
"I'd still bring you water," she says, flippant, "But food you can go without for... what, a few days? No big deal, right?"  
  
_A few days._ Just imagining it makes him feel weak. His appetite is ravenous. _Can_ he survive that long on nothing? He doesn't want to find out.  
  
"I'll stop," he swears. "I won't do it anymore."  
  
If there's no one there to hear then what's the point? He'd keep it up if he thought he had a chance, but...  
  
"Good boy." She reaches for his hair, petting it tenderly. "I'd hate to do that to you."  
  
He bristles at that. He's not some animal she can choose to feed or not feed at will. He's a human being with rights, damnit, not someone she can threaten with starvation for bad behavior.  
  
She asks him what he wants for dinner tonight and lists off a few options. With his chin to his chest, hair in his eyes, he mumbles that whatever she's having is fine. She pads softly out of the room-- out of the closet he lives in now-- and he squeezes his eyes shut at how helpless he's become.  
  
He thought he'd found an easy way out.  
  
Maybe there is no easy way out.

 

 

\--

 

 

She cooks for him. Feeds him. Won't give him back the use of his hands, and Daesung knows she'd never arm him with something he could actually use as a weapon like a fork or a knife or even a pair of chopsticks, so he doesn't bother asking. And why would he, with his hands locked behind his back?  
  
Before long she has him opening up for her like a baby bird awaiting a meal from its mother, counting on her to keep him properly fed. He feels as helpless as one. Not naked, thank god, but he may as well be for all the protection his clothes afford him. Being dressed doesn't stop her hands from straying. There are times she tests him. Her wiping a gob of sweet sauce from his shirt turns to fingers slipping under his collar. Her picking at errant grains of rice that didn't make it into his mouth ends with her fingers hooked under the waistband of his jeans. Dipping under his boxer shorts up to the first digit. Daring him to react.  
  
And react he does; he flinches every time, jumpy as always. The last thing he wants is her hands on him.  
  
With wooden chopsticks she guides clumps of sticky rice, pickled vegetables, tofu, and thinly sliced meats like chicken and tuna and eel and boiled shrimp between his parted lips. He accepts it because he hungers. The humiliation of submitting to her like this can't change that.  
  
For Daesung, food sits high on his list of life's pleasures-- the flavor, the satisfying fullness that follows. Here, though, the joy of food is gone. He eats because he has to, and the act of eating soon becomes as bland and uninteresting as his surroundings. Even the texture is lost on him when it turns to sludge in his mouth.  
  
There's nothing _wrong_ with her cooking, but how can he be expected to enjoy something he doesn't want? Her feeding him by hand... he would sooner eat his meals off the floor than take them from her fingers if given a choice.  
  
Of course, she never gives him that option. She stays with him through every bite and expects him to eat everything she offers, as is customary here, plucking every last grain of rice from the bowl and tucking it into his mouth. Clearing his plate has never been a problem for him before, not with his appetite.  
  
"My grocery bill the other day was insane," she says, holding back a fond smile. "I knew you would be expensive to feed, but seriously. Where does it all go?"  
  
Daesung pushes his mouthful into the pocket of his cheek and replies, "I'm a man. Eating is a talent of mine."  
  
She pinches his cheek hard and his food is forced over the back of his tongue unexpectedly. He coughs, then swallows, then coughs again.  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full," she chides, and releases him to snag another slice of fish between the ends of her chopsticks.  
  
So he stops talking and focuses on the task at hand. He chews, he swallows. Obediently, he levers his mouth open for more and tries not to think too hard about how he must look, how she must love him like this, how seeing him this way must make her feel motherly, like she's nurturing him, like she's providing for him, like she's doing him some kind of _favor_.  
  
Daesung doesn't want her food... only his freedom.

 

 

\--

 

 

He's sitting, knees to his chest, back to the wall beside the old radiator, his constant companion. She's given him a pillow and blanket, at least; its cold metal piping makes for a terrible headrest.  
  
She's on the floor with him, reclining on her side not a foot away, flipping through the March issue of Ana Magazine.  
  
"This was a good interview," she murmurs, fingers tracing the words on the page in thought.  
  
"The interviewer asked good questions," Daesung says. That had been one of his first interviews as promotions for his dome tour were gaining traction. He had left the office that day feeling pretty good about the answers he had given. With two solo tours under his belt, he's getting better and better at selling himself.  
  
"Your lips _are_ sexy though!" she suddenly cries, startling him with a hand on his leg. "I can't believe you think-- _just pink?_ That's it, that's all?"  
  
He flushes.  
  
"Well, they are," he says, hunkering down. "I just haven't given it much thought. We guys don't really think about our lips."  
  
His jaw snaps shut.  
  
"What do guys think about, hmm?" She presses, fingers kneading his calf uncomfortably.  
  
"Girls' lips," he says reluctantly. She gives him a knowing smile and returns to the magazine, scanning its glossy pages with hungry eyes.  
  
The photographer had posed him around the hotel room in search of the best shots, his best angles. It hadn't been Daesung's idea to recline on the bed, but next thing he knew he'd been making himself comfortable on its plush duvet and seducing the camera with his best bedroom eyes.  
  
"We should recreate this." Peering up at him with hopeful eyes, she pats him on the knee. "Someday. When you're ready."  
  
Daesung bites his tongue. He'll never be ready to get on a bed for her. With her. Whichever.  
  
Another half hour passes like this, Daesung catching what little sleep he can with her so close. If he's just boring enough maybe she'll lose interest and leave him alone. Eventually he shifts his weight to his other side-- the half of his ass flat against the floor is falling asleep-- and that's when he senses a familiar discomfort.  
  
His legs squeeze together around the ache. He needs to go.  
  
As in, you know... _go_.  
  
He wishes he didn't have to tell her that though.  
  
"Is, um."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Is there a restroom I can use?" he says into his knees. He _hates_ that he has to ask this.  
  
She stops midway through turning a page; it falls back the way it came. A moment passes in silence.  
  
"I... can't do that," she says, watching him with a strange light in her eyes.  
  
"Can't do what?" Daesung dares to ask.  
  
"I can't let you... go."  
  
His face burns with shame; he can't bear to look at her. So he drops his gaze to the floor, to the magazine instead, its pages wide open and inviting. His own face stares back at him, eyes half-lidded and sultry.  
  
"What..." It's unnerving, locking eyes with himself. "Why?"  
  
"You could overpower me too easily."  
  
"I wouldn't."  
  
Her sharp laugh is like the crack of a whip. He feels stung.  
  
"You're a sweet guy, Daesung, and you're probably right. You have the kindest heart. You might not try anything." She taps a finger against her temple. "But I'm smarter than that. And I can't take that risk."  
  
"I won't try anything. I'll-- I'll be good. I promise."  
  
"I already told you."  
  
"I have to go," he whispers weakly, shrinking further into himself. What does she expect him to do? Hold it forever? "Please don't make me beg."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
She stands and steps over the magazine on the floor, now forgotten for good.  
  
"No," he pleads, desperate not to be left like this. "Don't go, untie me, please, _please_."  
  
"So dramatic. Just wait, okay? I'll be right back." Seconds later she's gone.  
  
He crushes his face into his knees again without a sound, the fight in him fizzling out.  
  
Not a minute later her return is announced by the soft whisper of socked feet on carpet. Daesung looks up when something solid bumps his toes.  
  
It's a stock pot, stainless steel. Inside the surface is scratched and dulled from years of use.  
  
"Use this."  
  
He stares down at it in horror.  
  
"You want me to piss in a pot?" he says when he finally finds his voice.  
  
"I know, I know. Gross, right?" She makes a face down at the pot. "I'll come and empty it out when you're done. Or every once in a while." She cocks her head to one side, as if the thought of how to handle his bathroom business is occurring to her for the very first time. "It's possible I didn't think this all the way through." Then, a nervous giggle, "Oops."  
  
"I can't use this."  
  
"Yes, you can. You're a guy, you can do it anywhere, can't you?"  
  
"It's not that."  
  
"Then what is it? Are you embarrassed? Don't be."  
  
"It's... degrading," he mumbles.  
  
"Look, it's this or you make a ruin your pants and then you go without until I can get you another pair." A pause for effect. "Or maybe I _don't_ get your another pair and you just do without." She shrugs. "Choice is yours."  
  
"I..."  
  
"Complain all you want, but don't forget, I'm the one who's gonna have to clean up after," she reminds him, and it seems she's done, then; she gathers herself and treats him to a sickeningly sweet smile. "I'll do it for you though."  
  
_You wouldn't have to if you'd just let me out to use your restroom!_ he wants to cry. He wants to scream and kick the pot away, wants to send it flying across the room-- not just across the closet but the bedroom outside it too. Just the sight of it _offends_ him.  
  
She wanders away to let him do his business, offering him a rare instance of privacy, but it's small consolation. He holds out as long as he can, hoping she'll change her mind, praying that a little time will help her see how damaging this is to him. If she really cared about him she would let him retain this shred of dignity.  
  
He holds on until his bladder is screaming at him to let go, until even the slightest movement elicits a whimper-- until _breathing_ reminds him of the intensity of his need. He deeply regrets downing so much water so fast, earlier.  
  
"Ha-- Haruka," he calls out nervously. That's her name, right? He swore not to say it but he's just remembered one very important detail: with his hands behind his back, he can't undo his fly.  
  
"Help," he cries plaintively, beyond ashamed.  
  
Her head pokes around the closet door.  
  
"Oh, right," she says, scurrying in and swiftly undoing his button and zip. She's surprisingly professional about it, and Daesung just manages to stop himself from doing something crazy like _thanking_ her when she's done.  
  
"It's been a while... What are you waiting for?"  
  
"For you to go," he grits out.  
  
She pouts down at him from her place in the doorway.  
  
"Well. Just let me know if you need anything."  
  
Then it's just him and the pot.  
  
He uses the pot, kneeling before it while his bladder empties. His head falls back and he sighs, mortification momentarily replaced by relief.  
  
But it doesn't end there. To his dismay, just as he's reaching for his boxers to pull them up, pawing awkwardly at them from behind with his bound hands, another need makes itself known. One that's just as vital but decidedly... smellier.  
  
_This_ he had refused to consider.  
  
She'll be coming to collect it. She'll carry it away. He can't... He doesn't want to... He _shouldn't_...  
  
He'll be doing himself no favors if he doesn't.  
  
Physically, he feels instantly better Emotionally, he's a wreck. Inside this cramped space the smell is overpowering. His stomach churns at the thought of her coming back to-- to _this_.  
  
He never wants to see her again.  
  
He needs her here now.  
  
He can't stand the thought of her carting away his waste.  
  
Worse is the thought of her leaving it.  
  
He turns into the wall and folds himself into the tightest ball he can, buries his face in the denim of his jeans and breathes through his open mouth, calling on the last of his courage not to break down and fucking _cry_.  
  
Some time later the door creaks open, but Daesung doesn't budge. He can't face her, not with a pot of his own shit parked three feet away.  
  
"Whew, stinks in here," he hears, and it's like a slap to the face.  
  
"Sorry. Feel better?" She's ruffling his hair. "You okay? You're quiet."  
  
"Take it away," he croaks, throat tight. His limbs feel locked in place, incapable of uncurling to face her.  
  
"Okay, I'm going, I'm going," she says, sounding put-upon. "I'll bring you something to cover it with next time."  
  
_Next time_. He's no better than a dog, stuck in a crate and forced to relieve himself where he sleeps. Is this her idea of housetraining him?  
  
He's hardly her pretend boyfriend. He's less than human, here. He's her pet. Her plaything. Completely at her mercy, entirely under her care. Does she see what she's doing to him? They say love is blind but...  
  
This isn't that.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

It doesn't get much easier, sitting by in tortured silence as she comes in periodically to pick up after him.  
  
"How are you doing? Hanging in there?"  
  
His lip wobbles.  
  
"Oh no." She drops to her knees and wraps arms around him, pulling him close. Too close, always too close. "Don't cry."  
  
"I'm not," he chokes out, because technically he isn't. Not yet. But tears aren't far off. The softness of her chest against his face doesn't calm him; it leads him closer to his breaking point, fast approaching.  
  
"Don't cry," she repeats, this time in heavily accented Korean. Surprise shocks Daesung still.  
  
"Did I do it right?  
  
"That was... that was great," he says, heaping on the praise even though it was anything but. He barely understood her through her thick accent.  
  
"I've tried to learn a few words but it's tough. How did you get so good at Japanese? You're practically fluent." She tucks his head under her chin while he recovers from his surprise. "My smart man."  
  
_Don't cry._  
  
"You taught me that."  
  
And now she's turning his face into her breast, cradling his head as gently as a mother would her suckling babe. This would be... really nice if it was anyone else.  
  
"I did? When?"  
  
"On Nico Nico Live. Remember?" Her other hand, the one not supporting his head, bumps his face a few times before he picks up on why, his eyes cracking open.  
  
She's undoing the buttons of her blouse.  
  
"Uh--"  
  
"Will this make you feel better?" she asks, peeling the front open with one dainty hand.  
  
"No."  
  
She hesitates, seeming hurt.  
  
"Oh. Okay. I just thought..." The buttons are slipped back through their holes, and the glimpse of skin Daesung had seen is covered up once more. "Why not? Too soon?"  
  
_Too soon?_ He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.  
  
"Maybe another time," she murmurs, edging away from him, and before Daesung knows it she's standing and backing out of the closet, the pain of rejection clear in the way her arms wrap around herself on the way out.

 

 

\--

 

 

 _Another time_ arrives in no time at all.  
  
"It isn't right," he reasons, refusing her again.  
  
"What's not right?" Her lower lip juts out in a pout, and it would be cute on anyone else with a face like hers, but all it makes Daesung feel is _disturbed_. "You're here. You're mine. I just want to make you feel good."  
  
_I'm not yours!_ It's so loud and clear and booming inside his head that for a moment he's sure he said it aloud.  
  
"I'm... I'm fine. You don't have to do anything, really," is comes out instead.  
  
Even so, her shirt slides up and over her head, and Daesung averts his eyes.  
  
"Why won't you look at me?" she huffs. "Am I not pretty enough?"  
  
"No, you are, you're very pretty," Daesung says because he doesn't know what she'll do to him if he doesn't hand her the words she wants to hear. What she'll threaten to take away from him this time.  
  
"But?"  
  
"But... I'm not ready." _I'll never be._  
  
She sucks her lip into her mouth, studying him.  
  
"Well then, what do you want me to do? I want to share myself with you."  
  
"Keep your clothes on," Daesung squeaks.  
  
He jumps back when her arms slash the air in a sudden fit of frustration.  
  
"What's wrong with you? What guy doesn't want to see a pretty girl's chest?"  
  
"Nothing wrong with _me_ ," he mutters, and fuck it, he'll take his chances. If she wants to deprive him of dinner or whatever then so be it.  
  
"I never thought you would need so much convincing." Her gaze rakes over him, dissecting him; he feels cut open and exposed. "You're not a virgin, are you?"  
  
"No, but that's not the problem here!"  
  
The chain clinks behind him, its links pulled taut. Shocked by his own outburst, Daesung's chest heaves, his labored breathing thunderous in the calm that follows. He swallows thickly, licking the dryness from his lips, and tries again, this time softly.  
  
"Is there anything I can do or say to make you understand..."  
  
_...that I don't want you. And I never will._  
  
He can't bring himself to say it. _A coward who only pretends to be tough._ He sang those words so many times never thinking they would turn out to be true.  
  
"During your tour," she begins with a chilling calm, "everyone was chanting, _Show me something! Show me something!_ " She tosses her hair over one shoulder and scowls. "So bothersome. Annoying, really. I don't blame you for not wanting to. In fact, I'm glad you didn't give in."  
  
"Why," Daesung says, wary.  
  
"Because you were saving yourself for me, obviously." Her dark eyes meet his, dead serious. "And you still are, aren't you? But you don't have to anymore, silly. You're here now. With me."  
  
His heart sinks.  
  
"No more playing hard to get. Okay?"  
  
_I'm not playing. I never was._  
  
"You don't have to say anything to make me understand. I understand just fine."  
  
_She's not going to listen_ , he realizes then. She's dead set on this delusion of hers, this unwavering expectation that they're going to end up together no matter what. She'll do whatever it takes to make her confused dream come true. She's already taken tremendous steps toward getting them there; the first was to get _him here_.  
  
This is, he realizes with bitter resignation, the logical progression of things. If there is any logic at all to be found in this.  
  
"Anyway. You don't have to show me anything, not yet. I can wait. But I think," she moves to undo the clasp of her bra. "You deserve a reward for your loyalty."  
  
Her bra straps slither down thin arms. Up to this point Daesung's eyes have remained firmly on her face, but when the lacy undergarment falls away they do what eyes do best, with or without consent: they stray.  
  
"I'll show you something," she says, reaching for him.  
  
And to Daesung's dismay, she does.

 

 

\--

 

 

She begins bringing him treats, sugary confections that any fan of his should know he has no stomach for. He loses weight, his heavier muscle mass withering away and converting into stores of fat instead. Parts of him that were solid and strong become _soft_. He's out of shape for the first time in a long time, longer than he can remember, countless hours of training and careful dieting gone to waste. He misses his exercises, laments the loss of the body he's devoted so much time and effort to sculpting over the years.  
  
And he's going out of his mind with _boredom_.  
  
Most of his time he spends sleeping... or, well, trying to. Asleep or awake, being physically bound to the radiator only allows him two positions: on his side on the floor or slumped against the wall. Or, worse, against the radiator itself. He grabs sleep in bits and pieces, grateful for whatever he can get.  
  
Sometimes, in his dreams, he catches glimpses of loved ones back home, and wakes with wet eyes.  
  
"What happened to your abs?"  
  
"They're taking a break," Daesung says glumly.  
  
She hums in something like sympathy. Then, "You said you like chubby girls, right?" and pinches him above the hip, right over his oblique muscle, where he was once so lean.  
  
Daesung can't believe it; her steady stream of treats has given him _love handles_.  
  
"I... kind of? I just like when people indulge in what makes them happy."  
  
"Because that's what makes you happy."  
  
"Yeah," he says, as honest and sincere as he's ever been, "It really does."  
  
"How are you even real?" she breathes, stars in her eyes. "You too good to be true. Sometimes I still can't believe I have you."  
  
The smile he presents to her is a miserable thing, a mere shadow of its former, shining self. Besides his voice, his smile has always been regarded as one of his greatest assets, but here its value seems to diminish every time he uses it. Simple things like food, water, and that damn pot in place of a proper toilet, aren't guaranteed if he doesn't submit to her with a smile.  
  
It feels more like a means to an end than an expression of cheer. Just another form of currency.  
  
He knows he's being trained and he can't do a damn thing about it.  
  
"I love your smile." A tray of food appears at his feet; a puff of steam clouding the air between them when she uncovers the bowl of sticky rice. "Your smile, your voice, the way you move..."  
  
Before he can reply, her chopsticks are pushing between his lips.  
  
"V.I and SOL and GD are better dancers," he says a moment later, taking care to use their Japanese stage names. He doesn't consider himself a strong dancer; in fact, he's pretty sure all his bandmates dance better than him. Well, everyone but Seunghyun.  
  
God, he misses them.  
  
"I wish we could dance," she says, sighing dreamily.  
  
"I'll put in a good word for you," he mutters. _If I ever make it out of here._  
  
"I meant you and me." Another clump of rice at his lips, the chopstick ends poking their way in. "Your bandmates are great and all, but I'm really only interested in you."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Big Bang is my everything." She giggles, deftly scooping up another mouthful. "Just kidding. _You're_ my everything."  
  
The problem with her being so stuck on his lips is that she soon wants them on her. His smile alone is no longer enough, and that's how she begins collecting kisses as payment. A kiss on the cheek, on the forehead, on her closed eyelids or her parted lips. Sometimes on the tiny tip of her nose.  
  
He toys with the thought of biting it off.  
  
The visual sends a shock of fear through him, its ripples rocking him through the night, long after she's retired to bed. Safely out of reach of his teeth.  
  
He has never entertained any thought so vicious before, so _savage_. He wouldn't. He would never.  
  
...Would he?

 

 

\--

 

 

As time trudges onward, wearing him down, so do her touches, her explorations more daring by the day. She toys with the buttons of his shirt and flays open the front, slipping it off his shoulders and persuading it down his arms until it reaches his fettered wrists. Then she takes her fill, drinking in his shape and the feel of his skin, her hands scouring the surface like sandpaper. Her touch is soft, silky even, but Daesung can't shake the sense that with every pass she leaves scratches in his skin. Shallow scores that he doesn't see but feels acutely.  
  
"Stop. Please."  
  
"You don't mean that."  
  
"I _do_ mean it," Daesung whines, "I don't want this."  
  
"Okay then, how about this?" Her nails comb down his sides, teasing red trails into the sensitive skin over his ribs.  
  
"Please, _don't_ ," he gasps, hating the goosebumps her touch triggers, like a thousand tiny needles down his arms and back and legs.  
  
"Come on," He receives a playful pinch in reply, right at the waistband of his jeans. He jerks back in surprise and a trace of pain. "I've waited so long for you. What's a girl to do?"  
  
_Not molest me, for one_ , he wants so badly to snap. But at what cost?  
  
"You're right, you've-- you've been patient," he tries instead. He's running out of time and reaching the end of his rope; playing along might actually get him what he wants.  
  
"So patient, you don't even _know_ ," she moans, high and breathy.  
  
"So don't you want me to touch you too? Oh," He makes a face then, as if suddenly remembering, "But... my hands..."  
  
He puts forth his sweetest smile, the best he can manage. If he can convince her to just _trust_ him...  
  
"Nice try."  
  
The smile teeters, balanced precariously on the edge of an important moment.  
  
"You know, you're sharper than I thought."  
  
It topples over.  
  
That hurts more than Daesung likes to admit. His image here in Japan has him acting the fool at times, sure, but he does it because it makes people laugh. He loves to entertain. It never occurred to him that some of his fans might actually think him _simple-minded_.  
  
"And you do have a point."  
  
Her shorts land in a heap on the floor, leaving her in a small t-shirt and panties.  
  
"What are you doing," Daesung rasps, mouth going dry.  
  
She winks at him. "Just getting comfortable."  
  
"Please put your shorts back on."  
  
"Oh, you. You're so..." She scoots in close. "What was that you said about wanting to touch me too?"  
  
"Did I say that?"  
  
She darts in to peck him on the lips, hands on his bent knees to support herself.  
  
"Turn around?"  
  
He doesn't, not at first. It takes some shoving at his shoulders and elbowing his sides and jabbing at his thighs until he gives in and goes... reluctantly. His hands are soon clasped in her tinier ones, and it occurs to him then how much he hates her holding them.  
  
He didn't want to look. He definitely doesn't want to touch. But as usual, she leaves him without a choice-- without a _voice_.  
  
It takes some maneuvering with his arms joined, but soon she's hauling his hands up as high as they can go, as far as the chain will allow.  
  
"See?" She says, placing his hand over one small breast. "It's nice."  
  
"Yeah... nice."  
  
He turns and gives her a shaky smile in profile, hoping that this, just this, will satisfy her appetite for him for now.  
  
Without preamble, his arms are wrenched down hard and slotted somewhere hot and... and damp.  
  
He recoils, flying forward so fast he hits the wall headfirst.  
  
"That's going to bruise," she says and moves with him, holding his fingers to her persistently, her breasts pressing into his back as she does. Everywhere they're touching she's soft and yielding and so warm.  
  
He fucking _hates_ it.  
  
"This is yours if you want it," she purrs, breath washing over his ear.  
  
"I don't--"  
  
"Oh, but you can't. Not all tied up like this."  
  
He lets her wheel him around again until they're face-to-face once more.  
  
"Don't worry, I can help with that," she purrs, moving to straddle his lap.  
  
His pulse is roaring through him, blazing a path straight south and center until he's gritting his teeth, his jeans suddenly several sizes too small.  
  
"I'll take care of you."  
  
His eyes aren't on her, but he can feel how hers are on him-- on a very specific _part_ of him.  
  
"As long as you're up for it," she murmurs. "Which it looks like you are."  
  
He curls his hands into fists and shakes.

 

 

\--

 

 

"There's nothing between us."  
  
"Oh, come on," she sighs, pouring a fresh glass and raising it to his lips. Obediently, Daesung drinks. "What's it gonna take to get you to admit it?"  
  
It doesn't matter how many times they go over this. She never believes him.  
  
"It's just us here. Whatever you say stays in this room."  
  
"I'm telling you, we're only _friends_ ," he says again, this time with emphasis. "That's the truth."  
  
"You must miss him so much."  
  
_I miss everyone right now_ , he thinks, hating the pity he sees in her eyes, _not just Seunghyun_.  
  
How long has it been since he woke up here, anyway? Weeks? Months? Surely not months. He wonders how they're is coping with it, his sudden disappearance, his unexplained absence. His parents, his sister, his friends. Has Jiyong mobilized his army of followers to find him? Does Youngbae still pray for him every night? Is Seunghyun getting the support he needs at the Seoul police station? Is Seungri in Japan right now, asking around for clues to his whereabouts? After surprising him at his concert, he had planned to hang around for a few days, just like Daesung himself. Maybe, also like Daesung, he never left.  
  
He wishes he could give them answers, somehow. Wishes there was some way to at least let them know he's _alive_.  
  
His greatest fear is that they'll give up on him. That maybe they already have.  
  
Sometimes _she_ forget about him. Forgets to feed him. Early mornings where she's in too big a hurry to bring him more than a meal bar, too busy running out the door to catch the train to work. Breakfast as it's meant to be is fast becoming a thing of the past.  
  
At least there's no one around to see him gripping the bar between his knees, mouthing at the wrapper in an attempt to peel it down. With practice, he learns feed himself without the use of his hands. And if his meal sometimes ends up on the floor in the process, so what? He eats it anyway. It's all he's got.  
  
"So tell me," she begins, leaning in close; he fights not to scrunch up his nose at her wine breath. "When was the last time you two did it?"  
  
He loses the battle, his face deepening into a scowl.  
  
"Why would you even--" He turns his face away when she offers him another sip. "I told you, it's not like that, we're just _friends_."  
  
"You can be _just friends_ and still bone each other."  
  
He growls and flings his head back against the wall in frustration.  
  
"We're not _boning_ each other. We're bandmates. Colleagues. We work together!"  
  
"It sounds so cold when you put it that way," she says and clucks in disapproval. "You'll make a lot of people sad, writing poor TOP off like that when he's so fond of you."  
  
"I'm sorry? And anyway..." He never thought he would actually have to say this, completely serious, and he struggles to do so. "I'm not like that. I like girls, okay?" Just not this one, specifically.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yes?" He shakes his head, at a loss. "I don't know what else you want me to say."  
  
That's... not entirely true. He's heard it often enough, and he knows exactly what it is she's hoping to get out of him. He doesn't understand it, but he's played along before, even encouraged their silly little fantasies in the early years of his solo career. Harmless, right?  
  
But in the end it hadn't felt right, exploiting his and Seunghyun's friendship like that. She's right, in a way; what they have goes beyond just work. Seunghyun is a dear friend, one he would drop everything for and run to if needed. He doesn't want to share that with the world. He wants to protect it, to shield it from prying eyes and, worse, wild imaginations.  
  
Her lips curl, the inside edges dark with wine.  
  
"I've seen how he looks at you. How he smiles..."  
  
Daesung can't believe he has to sit here and listen to this.  
  
"Friends smile at each other. Nothing suggestive about that."  
  
"You don't see it, do you? How he's undressing you with his eyes like--" Her gaze goes distant, as if delving into a memory. "Like he could never get enough of you."  
  
Daesung shifts, suddenly uneasy. That's... not the sort of thing he wants to hear about his friend.  
  
"We... we have fun together on stage, that's all." _And some of it is even for your benefit. But that's not what you want to hear, is it?_ "Seunghyun is just affectionate. Sometimes overly so. Wears his heart on his sleeve, you know? He's like a--"  
  
"A baby, I know," she cuts him off. "You even have a pet name for him. It's cute."  
  
Daesung rolls his eyes. He wishes she would stop trying to drag a confession out of him. She's not going to get one because there isn't one to give.    
  
"He touches you."  
  
"He's handsy when he's happy."  
  
"He likes it too much."  
  
"He--" Daesung recalls, just then, with perfect clarity, all the times Seunghyun has grabbed him by the scruff and pulled him close. Or chased him across the stage, stabbing fingers into his sides relentlessly. Or vaulted up onto his back, demanding a ride, all his weight bearing down on him-- Seunghyun is thin but tall, and there's a lot more to him than people seem to think.  
  
"And you let him," she adds, her eyes fierce.  
  
"Because we're friends!" Daesung cries, "What do you expect me to do, slap him away? He's my hyung." He can't, and he wouldn't even if he could get away with it. He _likes_ being there for Seunghyun, doesn't mind humoring him, even if it means occasionally getting a little beat up in the process. That's just how they play.

 _She_ wouldn't understand.  
  
She settles back, a frown playing at the corners of her lips.  
  
"And anyway, all of them touch me like that, not just Seunghyun." And why wouldn't they? They're practically family by now, the five of them.  
  
"But TOP the most."  
  
"You're wrong about us," Daesung says, his voice like ice, his jaw squared. "What I don't understand is why it matters so much to you."  
  
She takes a long, slow sip of her wine, watching him like a hawk the entire time.  
  
"You've been so close to it for so long that you can't see it anymore. Your poor, dear, sweet thing."  
  
"No." Just a whisper this time.  
  
"You love him."  
  
"Of course I do. Just not like that." He hangs his head, broken. Defeated. Worse, shaken. The more she talks about Seunghyun the less Daesung wants to think about him.  
  
He hates her cryptic smile, her entire face softening like she knows something he doesn't.  
  
""Your secret is safe with me," she says, "But no more, okay? He can't have you anymore. I don't want to share you."  
  
"Because I'm yours now, right," he says listlessly.  
  
"I don't just love you, I love you like crazy," she sings, and Daesung wonder, is there anything worse than having his own words thrown back in his face? It was fun while it lasted, his bit of wordplay, but after this he can't imagine saying _kuhosuki_ ever again.  
  
Just then his stomach makes itself known, a loud, rolling growl that he feels as much as hears. As usual these days, he hasn't eaten since this morning.  
  
"Oh, it's-- how did it get this late?" She checks the time on her phone, blue light spilling across her face in the dimly lit closet. "You should have said something."  
  
He hadn't wanted to say anything, had hoped she would remember on her own that she had a duty to care for him. In the meantime he's learning to ignore it to a point, the way his stomach constricts, clenching up around nothing.  
  
"Remind me to comb your hair in a bit," she says, patting the mess of silver fluff atop his head. "Might take a while... I didn't mean to let it get this bad. Been busy lately, you know?"  
  
"Thanks," he mutters. "Just don't show me the mirror."  
  
He would rather not know how he looks right now; he might not recognize himself.  
  
She laughs at that, and the second she's out the door he sags back against the wall to await his next meal... hopefully a hot one this time.

 

 

\--

 

 

She fails to keep him a secret forever.  
  
But unexpectedly, the reveal is voluntary. It's late one evening when she brings a friend over, their voices growing in volume the closer they come to where he's being held. Their chatter is fast and lively, interrupted by shrill, girlish laughter.  
  
The lock turns and the closet door inches open. Daesung stares, frozen in both fear and hope. Isn't he supposed to be her dirty little secret?  
  
She-- _Haruka_ , Daesung recalls, refusing to use her name unless absolutely necessary-- stands behind her friend with hands over her eyes, ushering her through the doorway carefully. The other girl's grin is one of great amusement, on the verge of laughing. Together they advance on him one shuffling half-step at a time.  
  
"I can't believe I'm going along with this," the friend says. "You are so lying. You do not have D-LITE hidden away in your closet."  
  
"You'll see," Haruka says, unbothered by her friend's skepticism. "I can trust you, right?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"I'm serious. What you're about see doesn't leave this room. Okay?" And with that, without giving her friend a chance to answer, her hands fall away.  
  
The girl shrieks when she sees him, stumbling back a step. Haruka steadies the both of them.  
  
"Oh my god!" She turns comically wide eyes on her friend. "Oh my _god,_ no way. This is... it's really..."  
  
"It's really him," Haruka finishes for her.  
  
" _How?_ "  
  
Haruka presses a finger to her own lips. _It's a secret._  
  
Daesung half expects her to turn and run. To make a break for it, to spill her friend's secret to someone who can _do_ something about it. To find him _help_. He lifts his arms and rattles his chains a little, hoping she'll get the message.  
  
But perhaps he's underestimated the bonds of friendship, or whatever it is that ties these two girls together. She tiptoes toward him, staring at him like he's a wounded bird, flightless and afraid, and sinks to the floor, her eyes never leaving him. Beside her Haruka does the same.  
  
As one they take his face in hand, turning him by the chin, sizing him up. They don't look hungry, only curious, but under their scrutiny he feels strangely like dinner.  
  
"I don't know. It's definitely him but he looks a little... rough?" She rocks back on her heels, squinting at him.  
  
"I know," Haruka admits. "He doesn't get much exercise like he used to. I can't exactly let him up, you know? I'd lose control."  
  
Her friend nods along, her face solemn.  
  
"Too bad," she says with a touch of regret. "He was always so handsome. Now he just looks kind of... sad."  
  
"Sad," Daesung speaks up, voice cracking, unable to keep quiet any longer. "That's it? That's all you think of me right now? That I look sad?"  
  
"Oh, no, you're still lovely," the girl is quick to say. "It's just... like the light has gone out of you. You know?"  
  
"Come on, it's not that bad," Haruka comes to his defense, but Daesung barely hears her. He's doing his best to block them both out. "He just needs some sun."  
  
"And a bath." She looks at Haruka, a question in her eyes.  
  
"Sponge baths," Haruka answers.  
  
The friend nods again, satisfied.  
  
"Oh!" she says, and the loud _clap_ of her palms meeting pulls Daesung back to the present, sucks him back into the conversation taking place without him-- about him. "You should give him Vitamin D. I have this great multivitamin, I forget what it's called..."  
  
"Tell me later." There's a hand in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, stroking. "Don't you want to try him out?"  
  
"Can I?"  
  
Daesung hears the question and knows it isn't directed at him. He doesn't have the power to give permission here. His body, his life, it's all in her hands. Now her friend's too.  
  
She's making a spectacle of him. Sharing him. She doesn't care what he thinks, how he feels, for it or against it, it isn't his choice to make. Somewhere along the way he went from being her fantasy boyfriend to her fancy new toy to show off to friends. Her _plaything_.  
  
Fingertips come to rest on the insides of his knees. There's a little outward pressure and his legs are falling open--  
  
They spring shut like a trap. He doesn't mean to; she's trained that kind of fight out of him. He thinks of it as a natural reflex to unfamiliar hands trying to get at him where he's most vulnerable.  
  
The new girl pauses, peering down at him in confusion. Not sure how to proceed.  
  
If this were Haruka she'd be on him already, her hair spilling over his abs and hips and tickling his inner thighs, the heat of her mouth scorching him, the softness of her lips soothing the burn, her petite hands playing him like he's some living instrument for her to fiddle with in her free time. She seems to think that with a little practice she can pull the right notes out of him.  
  
But he'll _never_ sing for her.  
  
Haruka shoots him a dirty look.  
  
" _Daesung_ ," she warns, and the next time those hands persuade his legs open he lets it happen. Non-compliance isn't tolerated around here.  
  
"He listens to you," her friend observes.  
  
"I know, isn't it great? Such an angel. He's learning." She pats his cheek, pleased. "Aren't you?"  
  
"Yes," Daesung mumbles and hopes she doesn't ask him to say any more.  
  
"I can't wait to hear him," her friend breathes, fitting herself between his knees.  
  
_You're going to be disappointed_ , he thinks, because it's like his voice takes flight at the first unwanted touch, running away and hiding, doing the very thing he can't.  
  
He never held back before, but now...  
  
Then their hands are on him. His pants are peeled down his legs, his boxer-briefs too until they're bunched up around his bound ankles. His shirt is next, disappearing down his arms, and then there's nothing shielding him from their ravenous eyes.  
  
"Oh," the friend says, a hand flying to her lips. "He's... cut."  
  
"Right? Surprised me too," Haruka comments. "Apparently it's a Korean thing, or so the internet says. He won't talk to me about it."  
  
Daesung thinks he might just burst into flames on the spot. Almost wishes he would. Funny how they can make him feel like a freak without even really trying. Just two girls talking about him-- about parts of him-- like he isn't right there in front of them.  
  
"You've done your research."  
  
"Only after the fact. I was expecting something else." She shrugs, indifferent. "It's actually kind of nice? Makes him easier to clean and he smells fine."  
  
Her friend hums in thought.  
  
"The two tone look is interesting." She touches a finger to him experimentally and he jerks back, angling his hips away.  
  
"Stop talking, please," Daesung says weakly. He can't help the way he looks down there. Circumcision as a rite of passage is common practice where he's from. The lighter tip is a natural consequence of having the procedure done later in life, before he hit his teens.  
  
"Sensitive much?"  
  
"There's nothing weird about it," he insists. "It's normal where I'm from."  
  
"We're just appreciating your unique... attributes," Haruka says with a smirk.  
  
And then he's being led down to the floor, his bindings cutting into his wrists. It hurts, and they're never going to heal at this rate.  
  
"No," he whispers one last time. "I don't want this."  
  
But it's as if he never spoke at all because their hands are snaking up his thighs and folding over him, massaging and manipulating soft skin until it's not soft anymore, his body betraying him yet again, reaching for something he doesn't want, he can't stop it, he can't control it, and his mouth falls open around a gasp, his voice--  
  
There's something blocking it, something plugging it up, his vocal cords taut, as stiff as his--  
  
_Don't, **don't.**_  
  
He shuts them out and desperately wishes he didn't have to be here for this.  
  
But then his back is to the floor, and though he can't see them with his eyes closed he can feel their presence pressing in around him. It reminds him, strangely, of the video shoot for _We Like 2 Party_. Of waking up to his bandmates around him on the bed, kneeling over him while he lay there, still half-sunk in sleep. So much of that video shoot is a blur to him-- to all of them, really-- alchohol being wholly to blame, of course.  
  
He remembers feather-light touches on his legs-- on his kneecap, oddly enough, something soft and cool outlining a shape he hadn't been able to place until later: a star, courtesy of Jiyong. The touches had moved from his bare legs to his face, a gentle pressure across his forehead, in fine rings around his eyes, in a line down his chin.  
  
It had tickled then. It tickles now.  
  
Only this time, someone is kissing him. His eyes fly open and-- no, no one is kissing him, but there's Jiyong, hovering over him with eye pencil in hand.  
  
"Wha," he grunts, groggy with sleep. Jiyong just grins down at him and shushes him.  
  
It isn't until he's hoisted into the air moments later that he wakes fully. Along with Jiyong, Seunghyun, Youngbae, and Seungri are lifting him out of bed by his arms and legs and carting him from the room.  
  
Why are they doing this? Why did they had to come in and rip him from a deep sleep when his head aches from the night before. Not terribly, but he needs something for the hangover.  
  
"Thirsty," he rasps, and four pairs of eyes turn to him at once.  
  
"Water?" They grin in tandem. "You just wait."  
  
They carry him down the hall and into the lobby, and through the glass windows stretching floor to ceiling Daesung sees where they're taking him.  
  
"Seemed like you needed some help waking up. We're doing you a favor," Jiyong says from down by his legs, leading the way to the hotel pool.  
  
_Just let me sleep_ , Daesung wants to whine. He loves them and he knows they love him, but he'd been sure their days of ganging up on him like this were long gone.  
  
"A favor? Fuck, put me down already!" he screeches, kicking and flailing for effect.  
  
"Careful," Youngbae says, eyes darting to the side, "This is being filmed." Sure enough, a glance back shows a crew member following the five of them with camera rolling.  
  
Daesung chokes out a laugh. If this ends up in the music video...  
  
Oh, who is he kidding? The fans will love it.  
  
"But why does it have to be me?" he complains.  
  
"Because we love you, Daesungie," Seunghyun says and pinches the soft spot under his knee.  
  
Daesung yelps in pain-- that hurts!-- and it's then that he feels it: his center is tight, heat curling low in his belly, and under his robe, a stirring.  
  
He panics; it's nothing the others haven't seen before, but this is being _filmed_.  
  
Out the door they go and the acrid smell of pool chemicals makes his head spin, the stench of chlorine burning his nose. His bandmates' hands tighten around him so as not to drop him on the concrete; they squeeze his calves, loop under his knees, wrap around his thighs, clutch at his elbows and shoulders. He thinks he feels nails scraping down his front but when he looks down there's nothing there, just his robe, still tied closed.  
  
He fights back a groan at a sudden, unexpected stab of pleasure. He doesn't understand it. _Why is he so turned on?_  
  
Daesung doesn't want to be thrown in the pool but if it's going to happen it needs to be soon because his little problem is fast becoming a big one. There's no one touching him there as far as he can tell but even so he feels... he feels...  
  
_What's stimulating him?_  
  
His face burns with embarrassment as his body spasms, his hips bucking in search of more of that good feeling. The arms around him constrict to the point of pain, and he tenses up all over when they press in close on all sides, hugging him tight, holding him steady.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
_No._  
  
On the third swing they release him and for a moment he's free, he's _flying_ , nothing under him but air.  
  
Then comes the fall.  
  
The shock of hitting the water numbs him. He opens his mouth to suck in a breath, realizing belatedly that doing so is a _very bad idea_ , he's going to choke, he's going to _drown_. But what rushes into his lungs is air, not water, a little thick and stale and stinking with sex but still _air_ that he can breathe and--  
  
Wait, what?  
  
His eyes fly open, for real this time.  
  
_She's_ crouched over him, something unreadable in her dark eyes. Her hair falls like a shroud around his face, and through it he sees her friend watching him with curious eyes, a hand wiping at her mouth. Below, he's relaxing, the unwanted rush of pleasure that had crashed over him ebbing, and soon he's soft again, his skin still wet and a little shiny with spit-- at least he hopes it's spit.  
  
He's going to be sick.  
  
A hand is carding unsuccessfully through his hair, catching in tangles that shouldn't be there.  
  
"Did we lose you for a bit?" Haruka says, not unkindly.  
  
When? How? More importantly, _why doesn't he remember?_  
  
"No," he gasps out around the swirling in his stomach. "No, I was..."  
  
"Totally blissed out," her friend chimes in, proud. "I'm pretty good, aren't I?"  
  
_I wasn't here_ , Daesung thinks. _I was somewhere else. Somewhere better._  
  
With people he loves, and who love him. People who, though they tease him, and drag him out of bed in the morning to toss him into the pool for laughs, wouldn't hurt him or treat him like something sub-human.  
  
"Aww," Haruka coos. The she sticks her lips out, brushing errant strands of sweat-soaked hair off his face. "So quiet though. You know, I always thought you'd be a screamer, but you've hardly made a sound since you got here."  
  
"Maybe you just need to try harder," her friend suggests, and for a moment Daesung fears he's still sinking, drowning in the deep end of the pool in his memory at the thought of her _trying harder_.  
  
"Maybe." Haruka's eyes on him turn thoughtful, evaluating him.  
  
_Don't touch me._ He doesn't want anyone touching him ever again. _Leave me alone._ He wills them away, prays that if he lies here, still and unmoving, they'll lose interest in him and wander off. _Let me go._  
  
Not a single word of this makes it to his lips, because it doesn't matter that he's not moving, they're toying with him again, batting him around like prey. He's something tiny trapped between giant paws, their claws unsheathed and threatening to hack into him if he so much as sets foot outside his invisible cage.  
  
"Want to go again?"  
  
The friend gives him a dubious look.  
  
"Can he?"  
  
"Sure he can. We're pretty girls, aren't we?"  
  
Except his cage isn't invisible. Its bars are the four white walls around him and the two girls above him. It's their dark eyes and rows of teeth gleaming down at him as they go in for the kill again, each using their two hands and ten fingers to coax one more reaction out of him that he doesn't want to give. He'll submerge himself in another memory if that's what it takes to be free of them. He'll gladly go under.  
  
He went away once. He can do it again.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

And so it goes. She feeds him. She fucks him. She leaves him with the essentials and flits out the door for work... most days. He gets bottled water and his pot and a few snacks and that's it. He learns to ration his meager food supply, learns to sip at his water throughout the day without spilling half of it down the front of his shirt, effectively wasting it. He masters the art of feeding himself without hands, and without dropping too many crumbs-- though those he does lose to the floor he doesn't let go to waste.  
  
The carpet is a bit grungy, but more importantly, his stomach is empty. A little dirt and grime probably won't kill him. Starvation will.  
  
She leaves the light on for him more often than not. It's a single bulb installed in the ceiling with a pull chain several feet long hanging at its side. Some days he stares up at that chain and fancies that it's reaching for him. He'd like to reach back. There are times he wants to yank on it and plunge the room into darkness, just to escape that old bulb's sickly yellow light.  
  
At least in the dark he can almost forget where he is. Sometimes he can even fool himself into believing he's back at home. Not in his own bed, no, but napping on the carpet after losing the day to another LEGO set. If he's really lucky his dreams will begin with him onstage, waiting with heart in his throat for that moment when the lights come up, illuminating the crowd before him, the band behind him... and between them, standing at the center of it all, him.

Except in some of those dreams, for the first time in years, he's afraid of the crowd. The light sticks swaying in the dark are a sea of eyes peering back at him, glowing with intent, waiting to devour him the moment he steps off the stage.  
  
But those dreams are few and far between, and the light overhead stays on, because he can't rise to his feet here. He wonders, if-- _when_ he gets out of here, will he even be able to? His legs are weak from disuse, smaller and thinner than he's seen them in a long time.

 _He's_ thinner than he's seen himself in a long time.  
  
He had plenty of muscle to start with, but his metabolism is like a furnace and burns through his stores in a flash. What little flab he gained early on is gone. Those love handles he had fretted over have long since melted away. It takes a steady stream of calories to keep him in peak physical shape; her feeding habits lately leave him... wanting.  
  
He's a man, after all, fit and toned and strong. Or... he was.  
  
He misses sunlight and starlight and moonlight. He clings to the memory of the sun's soft glow greeting him at sunrise and leaving him in a blaze of glory at day's end, dramatic and breathtaking and unforgettable.  
  
In her absence he works up the courage to sing to himself, just a little tune, something from D-Day or a line from MADE, whatever is freshest in his memory... but his voice sounds all wrong so he stops.  
  
The long, lonely days have him anticipating her return almost as much as he dreads it. He thought his feelings were clear, but it's all very confusing now. He hates her company, yet she's his only form of socialization. This is too much solitude even for him.  
  
And he knows what awaits him when she arrives, most nights. At the sound of the lock turning on the front door his blood is rushing south. She's conditioned him, and he's never been more ashamed than when she comes to greet him and finds him ready for her.  
  
When she's finished with him she climbs off and wishes him goodnight with a lingering kiss. Asks him if he needs anything before she goes to bed.  
  
Needs. Never if he wants.  
  
"No," he answers automatically. Then she clicks off the light, locks the closet door, and leaves him in the dark.

 

 

\--

 

 

There's someone else here.  
  
A new voice reaches him through the walls, one he doesn't recognize. Not her friend from before, then. A minute later the TV kicks on, or maybe a radio, or something streamed through her phone; there's music playing, a tune he doesn't know.  
  
He waits, wondering if this will be like the last time. If she's going to flaunt him again to another friend. But the minutes crawl by-- ten, twenty, their voices muffled by the music, and still they don't come for him.  
  
That's when it hits him, that she means to keep him hidden. This time she isn't telling.  
  
This this guest of hers must be someone who can help him. Someone who would, if only they _knew_.  
  
He thrashes on the floor, tearing at his restraints, biting down on the gag in his mouth at the pain it causes him. She'd come in earlier and had coaxed his mouth open. Daesung had expected _food_ , not a wad of fabric forced in and taped roughly in place.  
  
He can't cry out, or yell, or shout. She took care to muzzle her dog before bringing over company. _How considerate_ , he thinks with an angry snarl.  
  
Then there's a change in the music, and Daesung strains his ears to listen, struggling to place it. It's familiar somehow, the opening notes, the lively tempo, the rich voice that dips and floats through the first verse.  
  
His stomach drops. That's his voice. That's his melody. That's his _album_.  
  
_D-Day._  
  
He wants to throw himself against the wall, wants to bust a Daesung-sized hole in it. Whatever it takes to be found., to be _freed_. He folds over himself on the floor, chin to his knees, coiled to strike-- and _snaps_ , spine flexing as he puts his whole body toward thrusting his legs into the drywall. A few blows in it splinters, chalky bits falling to the carpet.  
  
_Bang, bang, bang._  
  
The music cuts off, the talk comes to an abrupt end, the house falling suddenly, eerily silent. He's grateful for the lull but he knows what happens now, her socked feet shuffling across the floor, the timing of her steps angry somehow.  
  
She's coming for him.  
  
The pull chain doesn't survive her wrath, falling at her feet when she tears into the room and wrenches it from its housing. The bulb blinks on, bathing the closet-- and her face, twisted in rage-- in that nauseating yellow light.  
  
Before Daesung can finish blinking the light from his eyes she's bent in half and slapped him hard across the face.  
  
He cries out but the sound is muted, the ball of fabric wedged in his mouth reducing the small sound to almost no sound at all. This marks the first time she's _struck_ him.  
  
"Were you _trying_ to get me in trouble? I told you to go to sleep!"  
  
She yanks the wad of damp fabric out and flings it into a corner-- but only after ripping off the tape holding it in place and _fuck_ , that _hurts_.  
  
" _Well?_ "  
  
"That was my..."  
  
_My music. My work. My **life**._  
  
The gag is gone but still he chokes, the words catching in his throat.  
  
"Your what?" she says, cross.  
  
"D-Day," Daesung forces out. His chest aches at the memory of his recent success and how it's all come crashing down, his career in shards on the floor.  
  
"Yeah, so?" Daesung ducks away from her leg coming at him-- but it's not him she's aiming for. She kicks the radiator, scowling. "Try that again and I'll find out if this stupid thing still works."  
  
Flames lick at his skin where she slapped him-- for a small girl she's pretty strong-- and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. Fucking tears. He squeezes them shut, can't let her see how deep in him her hands have dug--  
  
"Are you _crying?_ "  
  
He breaks down and _sobs_ , joining the pieces of his career on the floor.  
  
"Oh." Her entire demeanor does an about-face, the anger draining out of her in an instant at the sight of him falling apart. She drops to her knees. "Oh, you poor thing. Honey, come here."  
  
" _No_ \--"  
  
"Come here."  
  
She gathers him up and cradles him close, and he's twice her size but he feels dwarfed inside the circle of her arms. Her comfort is no comfort at all.  
  
"I didn't think you could hear it. I thought you were asleep."  
  
"All I do these days is sleep," he blubbers.  
  
He feels like he's sleeping his life away. Sleeping himself to an early grave. He has found his calling in life; he was made to deliver happiness, his purpose to uplift and encourage and inspire. But he can't do that from the confines of a closet, cut off from the rest of the world.  
  
"Why do people do bad things to each other?" he whispers, the words meant more for himself.  
  
"What do you mean?" She uses her thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks on his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. I was just so..."  
  
Daesung half-laughs, half-cries at the thought that striking him is the only thing unkind thing she's ever done to him.  
  
"I was scared," she finishes. "That someone would find out and take you away."  
  
_That was exactly what I wanted._  
  
"Hey." She pulls back and aligns their eyes so he has no choice but to look at her. "Thought you said you wouldn't cry anymore."  
  
"When," he croaks.  
  
"In your song. Anymore. Remember?"  
  
She sings a few lines for him; his face crumples in pain, his own lyrics coming back to haunt him.  
  
"Does it bother you?" He nods into her shoulder. "Why?"  
  
"I miss it."  
  
"Singing? You can still sing for me. Don't know why you haven't. I'd like that a lot."  
  
He can't. He doesn't feel much like singing these days.  
  
"Do you have a favorite?" she asks softly.  
  
He does, but he won't share it with her.  
  
"I do." She strokes over his hair, smooth and free of snags; she had groomed it for him just that afternoon. "Wings."  
  
He fights free of her, twisting away until his back hits the wall.  
  
"Are you doing this on purpose? _Trying_ to hurt me?" he snaps, stung. He had wings once. He was flying high, soaring, the wind beneath his wings. Then she ripped him out of the sky and clipped them and locked him in a cage-- and for what? To admire him while he withers away here, slowly decaying, his feathers falling out one by one?  
  
"No?" She leans back on her hands, giving him some much-needed space for a change. "What's gotten into you?"  
  
Daesung wipes his mouth on his knees, smearing snot and tasting salt on his lips.  
  
"Why won't you just let me go? Half the time it's like you forget I'm here, or don't care. I'm a _person_ , just like you. I can't live the rest of my life chained up in a closet." His heart is made of lead, a terrible weight dragging him down. "You've had your fun. Please... Let me get back to my life."  
  
"I'm sorry it had to happen like this," she replies, and-- are those tears in her eyes? "But the world isn't ready for us, not yet. We need to give your fans and everyone else more time to calm down."  
  
He hears what she isn't saying: _Time to give up. Time to forget._  
  
"Are they still looking for me?" he asks instead.  
  
_Are they still talking about me? About how I've disappeared? Does anyone still care?_  
  
"Shh, let's not talk about that." She quiets him with a finger to his lips. "And you know, you're not fully ready for us either. I'm seeing progress, but... you need more time. You'll see."  
  
"You can't just take me out when you feel like playing with me and put me away again when you're done."  
  
"And hey, give the singing some thought. Keep your voice beautiful and strong." Her girlish giggle is as charming as nails on a chalkboard. "But just for me, of course."  
  
Daesung bows his head and lets her words sail past him. _Beautiful and strong._ He isn't sure he'll be either of those things ever again.

 

 

\--

 

 

She comes and goes, and some days she circles back later than others, but Daesung comes to accept, at least, that at the end of the day he can rely on her to return and see to his needs. Eventually.  
  
"I'll be back tonight," she calls out, as always, and just as every day before Daesung listens intently to the front door swinging closed behind her.  
  
Two days crawl by before he sees her again.

 

 

\--

 

 

He wakes sluggishly to a flurry of activity outside his dark prison. Hurried footsteps, drawers slamming open and closed in a rush, beauty products dropped on countertops.  
  
"Haruka," he wheezes, through a throat that feels shriveled. He's too hot, dried out inside and out like he's sat too long in a sauna. "Haruka _please_."  
  
The closet door bursts open, flooding the room with light, but before she can charge in she's stumbling back, hand clutching her nose.  
  
"Oh, shit, that's right."  
  
Her eyes dart to the source of the stink, the covered pot in the corner. As far away from himself as Daesung could stow it without pushing it completely out of reach. He had made that mistake once before, and never again.  
  
He watches, listless, as she covers her mouth. He doesn't really smell it anymore.  
  
She sprints in and out again, pot in hand, and Daesung waits for her to come back with water. Food would be good too. His stomach might actually be turning inside out. But some time passes and the sounds of her dressing resume, and she doesn't return.  
  
"Haruka," he tries again, his need overriding his contempt for her name.  
  
" _What?_ "  
  
"...Water?" His voice cracks.  
  
"Yeah, hang on."  
  
Daesung lies there on his side, one half of his face flush to the carpet. He had a pillow but she took it away to wash it days ago, before she disappeared, and he hasn't seen it since.  
  
Her silhouette reappears in the doorway.  
  
"Here."  
  
Something lands a foot in front of his nose-- several somethings. A whole pile of somethings. Water bottles and meal bars, the usual. The crinkling of their plastic wrappers sends a spike of nausea through his stomach. She used to buy the kind that was packed with protein; nowadays she gives him mostly granola. It's not filling, and he's so _sick_ of living on meal bars. He misses real food!  
  
"You were gone for so long," he moans, laboring to his knees.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Why didn't you come back sooner?"  
  
"Something came up," she says, sounding not the slightest bit regretful about it. "I do have a life outside of you, you know."  
  
Daesung... doesn't know how to respond to that. So he doesn't try, just sits quietly, defeated and a bit lost as he listens to the familiar soundtrack of her applying her makeup, the sound of compact mirrors and eyeshadow palettes snapping shut calling to him like a distant memory. He can't recall the last time he went this long without even a hint of makeup.  
  
His face may be bare but it's far from squeaky clean. He feels filthy and just plain gross overall. Her sponge baths are only good for wicking away sweat and... other fluids. If he ever gets the chance to shower again he's likely to scrub his skin clean _off_.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
The closet door is cracked just enough for him to make out how she stands and pats down the pleats of her modest, calf-length skirt.  
  
"I'm late for work."  
  
_Work?_  
  
"What time is it?" He has no idea. He's in a void, it feels like. Time passes differently in here.  
  
"It's--" She glances down at her phone and her face twists in alarm. "Too late, oh my god. I have to go."  
  
"But you just got here!"  
  
"And now I have to go again. I'll be back this evening."  
  
"You said that last time," he whines and tugs mindlessly at his restraints, barely flinching at the familiar fire that shoots up his arms, his abused wrists rubbed raw by now. He'll have scars, he thinks. He hasn't gotten a good look at his hands since he first awoke here.  
  
"Look, I'm sorry that happened, but you're okay, aren't you? I promise I'll be back tonight." Another glance down at her phone and she's whipping around, striding away. "Ugh, I don't have time for this. You have food and water now, you'll be fine."  
  
"No! Don't go," he pleads, panicking at the thought of spending another day alone, in the dark with nothing to do. He doesn't want to be left wondering for hours-- or worse, _days_ \-- if she's going to come back for him or simply forget him again.  
  
_I don't want to die here in this closet._  
  
"I have to."  
  
"Don't leave me here again!"  
  
"You'll be fine!" she repeats, but Daesung doesn't feel fine. His heart is racing, a drumming of fear drowning out his hunger and dehydration and fatigue and screaming that _he can't let her leave, she might not come back--_  
  
"Wait, _wait!_ " He strains against the ties holding him down, a burst of adrenaline dulling the pain in his wrists. The radiator coils rattle, their cast iron casings shaking under his weight. " _Haruka_ \--"  
  
She's shutting him in again. She's turning the lock.  
  
"No, please!"  
  
 In his distress he hurls himself into the one wall he can reach, the cracks he'd put there before expanding outward like a spider's web.  
  
"What about me?" he cries, distraught, "I thought I was your everything!"  
  
Then she's on the floor with him, she's kneeling, she _came back_ \--  
  
 Her hands clamp down on his ears and she pulls him around to face her.  
  
"What is your problem?!"  
  
"My problem?" he yelps, "My problem is I don't want to die here!"  
  
"Stupid! You're not going to die," she hisses, shaking him sharply.  
  
"I will if you go away again and leave me to starve! If I don't die of thirst first."  
  
"I just gave you water! And food to eat! God!" Her hands tighten over his ears, short but sharp nails biting. "I didn't know I was bringing home such a _baby_."  
  
"I hope you never have one," Daesung spits, thinking about the condoms she's taken to discarding lately, little rubber rings dropped to the floor after a moment's deliberation. "You'd kill it without even trying."  
  
She doesn't know how to take care of a pet, much less a person. He's the living proof of that... for now.  
  
She snarls and shakes him again, viciously this time, her hands still gripping his ears, twisting them-- then bright hot _pain_ is exploding in his left.  
  
"What the _fuck_ ," Daesung grunts and shies away, finally free, and that's when he sees her staring down at her hand in shock. She throws it open and something small and shiny and round bounces on the carpet.  
  
"Did you just--"  
  
His hoop earring.  
  
He reels for a moment, feeling faint, then tilts his head to one side, presses his ear gingerly to his shoulder. When he cranes his head around to check the damage there's a splash of color against the white of his shirt, a splotch of blood staining the cotton.  
  
"Oops."  
  
She moves in to get a better look at it and makes a face at what she sees. Daesung feels his world tilt.  
  
"It's fine, it probably looks worse than it is." She plucks his earring up off the floor and examines it, by all appearances unbothered by the blood on it. "Look, whatever, I just... I'll clean you up when I get back."  
  
Daesung turns to peer at the bloodstain on his shoulder again, forgetting the throbbing in his split earlobe, and so fails to see her heading for the door.  
  
"Just try not to get blood on the carpet," she says, and seals him in. She does leave the light on for him, at least, the broken pull-chain replaced.  
  
He isn't sure if that's better or worse. He can't stop staring at the blood.

 

 

\--

 

 

The next time she climbs atop him he doesn't respond. He's never really been into it, but this time his body is calling it quits too.  
  
_It's not my fault_ , he tells himself. _I just can't do this anymore. I never wanted to in the first place._  
  
"No more," he mumbles, hollowed-out, empty. Her body does nothing for him; he winces at her weight coming down hard on parts of him that are still soft.  
  
Finally, to his great relief, she falls still. He wonders, did she actually listen to him, or did she give up on her own once once she realized they were getting nowhere?  
  
"Is something wrong?" she says, squinting down at the space-- or at the lack thereof-- between them in puzzlement. "You're not, like, broken are you?"  
  
_Not in the way you think_. He would laugh if he wasn't so close to crying.  
  
"Can't," is all he says. Can't give her what she wants. Can't face her through his shame. He never wanted to please her, but this is every man's worst nightmare.  
  
"You're supposed to be here for me," she says ominously.  
  
"It's not my fault," he says, defeated. "I can't just... get it up on command."  
  
Well, he could, under other circumstances, with someone who treats him right. Not here though. Not like this.  
  
She gives him a dark look, and he fidgets under the scrutiny. Can't she see he feels emasculated enough already?  
  
"I've had such a long day," she groans, stretching. "Work was awful. We're so busy right now, and understaffed. I couldn't wait to get back and destress." She grins, as if suddenly pleased with herself. "Or should I say _D'stress_."  
  
_Please don't._ Making puns with his stage name is one of his favorite pastimes, and one of the best things to come from his solo career. He can't bear to let her take that from him too.  
  
"Maybe later?" he offers, injecting a little hope into it. He really just wants her to get off him  
  
"Ugh." She shoves him away, disgusted. "Useless."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Can't even get it up for a pretty girl."  
  
"I'm sorry," he repeats, and the worst part of it all is that he is. This has begun to feel like his sole purpose here, the only reason she still keeps him aliv-- _around_. Not for companionship, not for his ability to make conversation, these days she only seems to want him for his--  
  
Maybe he should be grateful to his body for refusing. For finally siding with him.  
  
She doesn't even ask him to sing anymore, not since he refused her the first few times. It's just sex these days.  
  
When did he come to mean so little to her? More importantly, why does that bother him so much? He never wanted her love, but this apathy bordering on contempt is somehow worse.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Her hand under his chin, gentle like it used to be, nudges his face up until their eyes meet.  
  
"Your mouth still works, right?"  
  
He opens his mouth to reply-- then snaps it shut. His time here has left him feeling a bit dim, his senses dulled, but he knows a rhetorical question when he hears one.  
  
She's already naked. They both are. Any modesty she had around him she lost ages ago.  
  
A hand fists in the shaggy hair on the back of his head.  
  
"Don't bite me," she warns giving his head a shake, and the warning is clear: _or I'll make sure you regret it_. Then she's lying back and pulling him in, aiming him where she wants him. He thought she had given up on getting anything more from him, but in a way this is worse; he has to be present for this. There's no retreating into his himself and leaving her to do the work.  
  
With a surprisingly rough touch, all her former sweetness dried up, she pushes. As always these days, his new normal, he goes down without a fight.

 

 

\--

 

 

The radiator has a rough spot, a jagged line in the otherwise smooth metal. It's on the underside, a flaw in its construction, most likely. That he finds it at all is an accident; he had slumped back against its coils and curled his hand into a fist and inadvertently found the sharp edge, nicking a finger on it.  
  
He twists around enough to stare at the blood welling up and realizes what this means.  
  
_Happy accidents do happen._  
  
He wastes no time, pushes his bound wrists underneath the radiator until something catches on the ties. It's harder than he expects. He works up a sweat, his arms working back and forth in a sawing motion. It uncoordinated, sloppy really, and he tires quickly. Vibrations through the plastic ties irritate the wounds on his wrists, but the fact that he's able to get any friction at all keeps him going.  
  
The first tie snaps.  
  
He jumps in fright when it happens, but _hope_ has him at it again, just a small flame flickering back to life, even as a flood of fear threatens to sweep him away.  
  
What if she comes back? She's been gone for so long already. Should he wait? She could come through the door at any time. Should he finish this tomorrow? She doesn't check his restraints all that often anymore. His chances might be better if he waits another day.  
  
_You shouldn't have to wait even one more day_ , he's reminded. _She can't stop you once you have your hands and legs back. Even weakened, you're stronger than she is._  
  
Daesung isn't so sure about that. He feels weaker than ever. Can his legs still take his weight? Will they work like they used to? He hasn't stood since the beginning.  
  
Before he can make up his mind, before fear gets the best of him and stops him in his tracks, the remaining ties have snapped, and then they're peeling away, and his hands are--  
  
_Free._  
  
His shoulders crack painfully when his arms come forward for the first time in a long time. Freeing his legs takes a little longer, and for a short time he's not sure his feet will fit far enough under the coils to reach the sharp spot, but in the end he manages.  
  
He's just lost too much time, is all.  
  
"Come on, legs," he says, trembling with effort, "You can do this. Don't fail me now."  
  
His first attempt to stand ends with him back on the floor, the air knocked out of him. He tries again, this time propping himself up with the radiator-- the thing that had held him down all this time-- as a crutch. From there it's the wall supporting him, and then the door itself, which he tries unsuccessfully to open.  
  
Locked. Of course. He'll have to force his way through.  
  
Several full-body lunges later, his back and shoulders are screaming in pain, and something might be broken, but it's all worth it because the lock gives out. Flimsy. He tips his head back and says a silent prayer of thankfulness for cheap construction materials.  
  
Throwing open the door brings him face-to-face with himself, his image on the wall staring back at him. And it's not just him-- Seunghyun, Jiyong, Youngbae, Seungri, all of them posing together. Posters of Big Bang cover the walls of what Daesung had always suspected was her bedroom.  
  
And on her desk, his D-kun light stick and the bowl cast from his hands. On her bed, his winged D-kun plushie. As he falls out the door into the hall, hands still scrabbling at the walls for support, he knocks aside a scroll with him on it, standing there in that pink fuzzy sweater and gazing into the camera with what he'd hoped at the time was a cool expression.  
  
He throws it to the floor.  
  
And so he stumbles through her home like this, leaning heavily on the walls while his legs remember what it means to walk-- down the hall, around the corner, sliding door leading to a patio-- no, other way.  
  
The front door.  
  
Just as he's vaulting toward it-- _falling_ is more like it-- the knob turns.  
  
_Shit_. He knew this might happen. He stares down at the knob as it rattles, stock-still, fear bolting his feet to the floor.  
  
She looks as surprised as Daesung feels when she sees him. But she doesn't scream at the sight of him escaped from his cage. No, she seems ready for this, like she's been expecting this outcome and has _prepared_ for it. The door slams closed behind her when she backs into it and her hand, after rifling through her purse, comes back up clutching a knife.  
  
She points the blade at him.  
  
"Why?" he gasps, eyeing the weapon with trepidation.  
  
"I didn't want it to come to this," she says, voice surprisingly steady. Steadier than her hands that visibly shake. "You should have stayed put."  
  
Daesung doesn't reply. His eyes are on the blade, sizing it up the way she's done him so many times. It's small, little more than a pocketknife.  
  
"You're it for me. And I know I'm it for you," she continues, and for all that she's the one threatening him there's something frail about her, something young and afraid and desperate to prevent herself from unraveling at the seams. "You're not leaving me."  
  
"I'm leaving," Daesung says and nods at her weapon. "It will take more than that to stop me."  
  
"Watch me."  
  
"I never wanted to be here. Never!" he cries. He just wants her to _move aside._ "Whatever you thought this was, you were wrong. You _kidnapped_ me!. You-- I don't know, knocked me out and took me by force! And I have hated every second of every day here," he says brokenly.  
  
"No," she denies, eyes wet. " _No_ , you sent me signals. _Signs_. You even wrote a song about it!"  
  
"You're crazy," Daesung tells her, stomach clenching up, throat squeezing around these words he needs to speak. "You need to let me go. And after that you need help. Serious, professional help."  
  
" _You_ were helping me! You've helped me so much, you don't even know, you're..."  
  
She blinks and the tears collecting in her eyes fall, painting wet trails down blotchy red cheeks.  
  
"Don't. I don't want to hear it."  
  
"You're everything I've ever needed."  
  
" _You kidnapped me_ ," Daesung reiterates, determined to stand up for himself. "And ever since then you've been slowly killing me."  
  
His legs are starting to quake under him; taking a stand is hard work. He wants nothing more than to sink to the floor and rest already. But he's not in the clear yet.  
  
"No I haven't! I was taking care of you. I gave you what you needed, didn't I? What you wanted?" She seems to falter then, a strange expression crossing her face. "Which wasn't much... You never seemed to want anything..."  
  
"Not from you," he pants, putting a hand to the wall to conserve his strength. "I never wanted anything from you."  
  
"My love?"  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
"Did you ever love me?"  
  
"I never did," he says and reminds himself to _just breathe, you'll be fine, you're almost there, you'll make it through._  
  
"You're such a liar. I should have known," she hisses, eyes filling with renewed tears. "You and all your sweet-talk. You lead a girl on and then--"  
  
She laughs wetly.  
  
"You know what, I don't care." She takes one hand off the knife to scrub furiously at her tears. "I won't cry anymore. Not for you. Not for anything."  
  
"Please," Daesung tries, hoping this means she'll step aside. He's so tired. "I just want to go home."  
  
"This _was_ your home, your new home. But you didn't want it." When their eyes meet again hers are brimming not with tears, but with rejection and resentment. "You've hurt me bad, you know. I'll never recover. And if I can't have you..." Her hands flex around the hilt of the knife, "Nobody will."  
  
Time slows as he weighs his options. It's a small blade. It will hurt him; it won't kill him. Not unless she gets in a lucky strike. He's on his last leg, but she's the difference between life and death, and though his body is weak, his will to live is as strong as ever.  
  
He won't go back in that closet. He _won't_.  
  
And it's that thought that spurs him to make the first move, he's hurtling forward, placing all his hope in the element of surprise. She hesitates-- then lifts the knife and moves to strike, but that moment of indecision was all Daesung needed. Before the blade can descend his hands are flying at her, targeting her wrists but his aim is off and his hands close around the blade instead and _pull_.

He knows he's been cut, but it's just his hands. He doesn't feel it, doesn't pause to look. The knife clatters to the floor, and a second later she's joining it, her small body crumpling on the tatami mat like a rag doll.  
  
Later Daesung won't remember tossing her at all. She's been disarmed and the way is clear, and that's all that matters. He'll remember the door, its dark wood the last obstacle between him and his freedom. He'll remember his struggling with a bloody doorknob, the metal slick and too smooth under his bleeding hand. He'll recall wrenching it open at last, then falling through the doorway into light that _sears_ his eyes--  
  
He staggers onward under the piercing, excruciating, _wonderful_ pain of daylight kissing his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever.  
  
Something stops him. He catches himself on a handrail, momentum nearly taking him over. When his vision clears he's squinting down at the ground ten stories below.  
  
_An apartment building_ , he thinks, some terrible emotion splintering through him. _It was an apartment all along_.

It was never a house. She had been bluffing all along and he'd bought it. He could have called for help. He could have...  
  
A cry of despair rises up behind him, an anguished sound floating out the apartment through the open door. Her voice spurs him onward again, sends him stumbling down the hall as fast as his wobbly legs will take him. There's an elevator on his left and he slaps the _down_ arrow on his way by, leaving on it a smear of blood, and the doors are whispering open, it's empty, and he--  
  
Daesung stares at the small space and a strange feeling settles over him. Warning him not to go in.  
  
He takes the stairs instead, clinging to the side rail for dear life all the way down. His injured hand doesn't close quite right around the metal but he doesn't think too hard on that, and he nearly takes a nosedive a few times so he brings his other around to help, awkward as it is. It's slow going and his heart races the entire time, imagined footsteps pursuing him all the way.  
  
The glass doors at the building's entrance are too slow to slide open for him and he crashes into them headfirst, cursing and clutching his nose, which, god, he hopes he hasn't broken _again_. He stumbles up the street, running on adrenaline and not much else. All around him are tall buildings, high rise apartments and bars and convenience stores and--  
  
People. Pedestrians.  
  
These are no suburbs. In fact, he's been here before. There, that's the corner store where he'd gone to grab a snack that night when she--  
  
She hadn't taken him far at all. Just down the street, really. He's been _right here_ all this time.  
  
"Help!"  
  
The people skitter away from him, gawking at his bloody hands, and he knows he must look like a madman, shouting in some unintelligible mix of Japanese and Korean. He can't gather his wits enough to make sense of what he's saying, what he _should_ be saying, how to say it.  
  
"Someone, anyone... _I need_ \--"  
  
Something sharp drives into his bare foot and his legs give out once more, and this time he can't find the strength to rise again. He falls to his knees and stays there, wracked with tremors as the adrenaline that brought him this far bleeds out.  
  
A set of leather shoes appears before him, then he's peering up at a kindly-looking middle-aged man who, in turn, is gaping down at him, brows etched with concern.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
" _Phone_ ," Daesung wheezes, pressing his hands to the pavement. Only then does he notice the bloody handprints he's leaving. Pain pulses up his arm, reminding him that, yes, he had _grabbed a knife by the blade end_ back there.  
  
The man notices the handprints too. And just a few inches up, the open wounds on his wrists.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, hey, what's wrong?" He crouches, coming down to his level, and Daesung could cry with relief at his compassion. "What happened?"  
  
"Help. Hurts. Ah-- _problem_ ," he gasps, then follows it up with a furious shake of his head. That isn't right, but he can't remember the right word for it, suddenly unable to convey the urgency of his situation in a tongue that's not his own.  
  
"What kind of problem?" The man glances up, eyes sweeping the area. "Is someone after you?"  
  
"Yes. No. I don't-- I don't know." He really doesn't. He doesn't think she followed him out but he feels her presence looming still, like she's right there at his back no matter which way he turns, hands on his shoulder pressing him into the warm pavement.

"Do you know where you are?"

"I think so. Wait, what-- what day is it?"  
  
"Wednesday?" the man says and reaches for one of his injured wrists.  
  
"No, I mean--" Daesung licks his lips, his breath finally catching up to him. "The date? What month?"  
  
The man's expression becomes very troubled then, and Daesung thinks it says a lot about his drive to help-- and his _courage_ \-- that he doesn't back away right then and there.  
  
"Call the police," he urges. "Please," he remembers to add belatedly. Japan is nothing if not a polite society.  
  
Mercifully, the man does as told, slides his phone from his pant pocket and appears to dial. Daesung is babbling into it before it's even against his ear.  
  
"Hello, yes-- _help_ ," he gasps when on the other end of the line someone picks up.  
  
" _What is your emergency?_ " he hears spoken in a calm voice. _Emergency_. That's the word he was searching for.  
  
"My name is Kang Daesung," he pants into the phone, physically sick with residual fear, "and I've been kidnapped."

 

 

 

 


End file.
